


sinners & saints.

by lexorcist



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hospitalization, M/M, Nightmares, Sickfic, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 56,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexorcist/pseuds/lexorcist
Summary: A series of unrelated, S2/S3 Harringrove oneshots cross-posted from Tumblr.





	1. the beat of your heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186297648840/may-i-please-request-some-harringrove-fluff  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve is told the same thing over and over again: Billy Hargrove is no good.

He’s harsh and moody, he’s aggressive, he’s loud and obnoxious, he’s angry. He’s reckless. Nancy says that he’s an asshole. Dustin thinks he’s dangerous- that Max is the only reason he hasn’t run someone over with that sleek blue Camaro. Mike and Will say that he still screams at Max out the open window of his car when he drops her off at the arcade. Lucas says that Max has told him that Billy comes home from parties late at night, sloppy drunk and with bruises on his knuckles. (Steve doesn’t tell Lucas that he knows this already, that he is usually the one hauling Billy up the front steps of 4819 Cherry Lane). 

“They all think you’re bad news, you know,” Steve tells Billy on one such night. Billy is leaning heavy against Steve’s side, his arm slung around Steve’s shoulders. Every few steps he tries to push himself off of Steve, to walk without help, but Steve keeps a tight hold on his wrist. Billy’s is in the only car in the driveway, but he still makes Steve park down the street.

“Who?” he asks, and even that single syllable sounds slurred. 

“The kids.” When they are at the front door, he loosens his grip just enough to let Billy unlock the front door. He staggers inside, Steve hovering behind him lest he fall backwards. There is a light on down the hall and a small shadow quickly takes shape in it. Max is in her pajamas, eyes bleary, and she reaches one hand out to catch Billy. “I’ve got him,” Steve tells her, and Billy shakes his head.

“ _I got him_ ,” he mocks. “You’re not my fuckin’ keeper.” 

Max lingers, and Billy pushes past her toward his bedroom. He can’t seem to walk in a straight line and he grazes his fingers against the wall for support. “I’ve got him,” Steve repeats, and Max shrugs. 

“Keep him,” she says, and then she yawns and turns to slip back into her own room. Steve watches the shadow of her feet until she turns off the light, and then he follows the soft glow of Billy’s lamp down the hallway. When he arrives, Billy has already kicked off his shoes and shed his jacket. HIs clothes are being strewn across the floor. He is struggling out of his shirt, and Steve quickly slides up behind him and pulls the fabric over Billy’s head. 

“Get off me,” Billy grumbles, even as he lets Steve turn him around.

“Not happening,” Steve says. He pops the button on Billy’s jeans, though Billy protests with fumbling hands that try, in vain, to push Steve’s away. “Would you stop?”

“You fuckin’ stop,” Billy snaps, but he does stop fighting, and Steve can hear the sleepiness in his voice. As Steve helps him out of his jeans Billy takes the closeness as an invitation to rest his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder. The gesture- the suddenness of it, the innocence of it -makes Steve laugh. 

“Hey, come on,” he tells Billy, keeping his voice low. He helps Billy steps out of his jeans and then guides him toward the bed. Steve sits with Billy, and Billy relaxes- fully and completely -against Steve’s side. His head is still on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve keeps an arm around Billy’s back. After a few minutes, Steve gently nudges Billy. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Billy says back, the word so small and quiet that Steve can barely hear him. Billy’s eyes are closed. He is half asleep already. Steve rubs small circles against Billy’s shoulder with his thumb,

“Are your parents coming home tonight?” he asks. Billy doesn’t answer for a long time. Steve wonders if Billy heard him, and is about to ask again when Billy finally answers.

“No,” he says. “Don’t think so. Out for the weekend.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Steve asks. Again, Billy takes his time answering. Steven thinks he may have fallen asleep, considers laying Billy down and folding the covers over him, tip-toeing out of the room and back down the street. Then, he feels movement against his shoulder: the smallest nod of Billy’s head. “Yeah?” Steve asks, and Billy nods again. “Okay.”

Steve guides Billy down, and Billy lets him. He curls into Steve as Steve wraps both arms around Billy- buries his face against Steve’s chest, lets his head be tucked beneath Steve’s chin. He tangles his legs with Steve’s, and Steve gently rubs his back- careful of the yellowed bruises, always careful of those bruises that Billy claims are from keg party fights but that Steve knows come from larger fists. As Billy slowly falls asleep, as his eyelids flutter and his breath evens out, Steve can’t help but smile. 

“You know what I was saying before?” he asks. Billy only grunts, acknowledgement that Steve is talking, that he’s heard Steve say something, but not much of an answer. “About the kids?” Steve prods, and again Billy grunts. “They keep telling me you’re bad news, Hargrove. But look at you. You’re not so bad.”

At this, Billy smirks. He huffs a small laugh and slurs, “S’what you think.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve agrees, and he holds Billy just a bit tighter, holds him so close that he can feel the flutter of Billy’s heartbeat against his own chest. It is slow and steady; relaxed, comfortable, safe. “Yeah,” Steve says. “That’s what I think.”


	2. hum hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186321602570/fic-request-harringrove-and-a-happy-ending-3  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

The first few golden rays of light slip in through the blinds and spray a soft light over Billy’s bare skin. Steve traces the lines that the sunbeams draw over Billy’s back, his fingertips grazing gently over Billy’s shoulders and the dip of his spine. Billy shudders slightly, from a chill or some Steve’s touch Steve isn’t sure, but he calms as Steve gently shushes him and lights his lips over Billy’s forehead.

“Just me,” Steve says softly, and one corner of Billy’s mouth turns up in a smile or a smirk.  


“Fuckin’ creep,” he slurs sleepily.   


“What did you say?”

“That you’re a fucking creep,” Billy repeats, annunciating more clearly the second time around. He is on his stomach with his head turned toward Steve, one half of his face obscured by an overstuffed pillow. His visible eye squints up at Steve. “Watching me sleep?”  


“You’d have to be asleep for that,” Steve says.   


Billy playfully nudges at Steve, the push purposefully lazy as he says, “Wise ass.”

“I appreciate that,” Steve says. “My ass is, in fact, very wise.”  


“You’re an idiot,” Billy says.

“And you’re in bed with me,” Steve says. “What does that make you?”

“Charitable.”  


“Excuse me?”  


“You heard me.”  


“You’re lucky I care about your eight hours of sleep,” Steve says, “or we’d throw down right now.”  


“We can,” Billy says, the words near sing-song.   


“It’s too early,” Steve relents. “Go back to sleep.”   


Billy seems to consider pushing the matter further, pushing the playful fight into something else, but instead he nestles closer to Steve. He feels Steve’s arms, lean but strong, close around him and hums softly when Steve’s fingers comb gently through his hair. It is not long until he is relaxed again, breath slow and even, sound asleep. 

His skin is warm from the morning sun and he reacts ever-so-slighty to Steve’s gentle touch. He sighs as Steve maps whole worlds against his back, fingers trailing easily up and down his spine and across his shoulders. 

It dawns on him, as the sun rises higher and fills the small room with its light, how hard they’ve worked to get here. All the odd jobs. All the money saved. All the newspaper ink stains on their fingers as they browsed classifieds for apartments. And, sure, it’s a shitty little place. The heat doesn’t work that well and the water’s always cold. But it’s Billy’s- Billy’s own little corner, his own safe place to land, and that makes it Steve’s favorite place in the world. 

And, as Steve continues to draw invisible lines across the canvas of Billy’s skin, he discovers his favorite thing about his new favorite place: Billy’s skin is unmarked - Steve does not have to avoid a single bruise - does not have to worry about hurting him - does not have to worry about him, period. 


	3. sad savior.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186508354830/hi-are-fic-requests-still-open-if-so-can-you-do  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy doesn’t like to be touched anymore- not a hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back, not the brushing of Steve’s arm against his; he doesn’t want fingers in his hair or grazing over his wrist or trying to tangle between his own. He doesn’t lean his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, and he won’t let Steve kiss him anymore. He wants distance. He wants as much space as he can get, and in a lot of ways, it makes him worse than before- worse than the angry kid dropped smack dab in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Indiana and shoved into a world he never asked to be a part of. 

It started in the hospital. 

Steve thought it was because of the pain, or the pain medication, or the fact that Billy’s father hovered around him for hours on end screaming at nurses and badmouthing doctors and otherwise making it impossible for Billy to rest. Steve visited as a friend, but Billy never seemed to want to see him. Once, he arrived to find Max sitting outside Billy’s room. 

“Are they changing the dressings or something?” Steve asked, knowing that the nurses always shooed visitors out of the room for privacy when they did care (Neil Hargrove always refused, and would linger as looming outside the drawn green curtain until they were done), but Max shook her head. 

“He told me to get out,” she told him. “In so many words. You can try going in, but he really doesn’t want to see anyone.” 

Steve looked past her into the room and not even Neil was in any of the uncomfortable vinyl chairs lined up at the bedside. Billy was alone, for the first time in weeks. He was lying in the dark with his head turned away from the door. The machines attached to him beeped rhythmically.Steve hovered in the doorway, counting the soft beeps of the heart monitor, before finally stepping inside. 

He thought Billy was asleep. He quietly pulled a chair up beside his bed and sat down. He watched for a few quiet moments- the rise and fall of his chest, the way the bandages stretched taut with every inhale. It wasn’t until he saw Billy’s eyelids start to flutter that he sidled closer. He slipped a hand carefully over Billy’s, mindful of the IV line piercing his vein, but Billy pulled his roughly away.

“Hey-” Steve started, but Billy interrupted him.

“Don’t,” he said. Steve tried to protest, but Billy repeated, “Just don’t.”

Billy wouldn’t turn his head. He wouldn’t look at Steve, and he wouldn’t lay his hand back down against the scratchy hospital blankets. Steve sat there, watching him, for one minute and then for two, but Billy never once turned around or spoke another word. Finally, he softly said, “Okay.” and he let himself out.

“Told you,” Max had said as Steve walked out of the room. “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“Did he tell you why?” Steve asked, and Max only shook her head. 

“He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, either,” Max said. “He’s being a real asshole.”

Her tone didn’t sound harsh. It didn’t sound accusatory or angry or bitter. Steve thought she sounded something akin to defeated, like she’d been fighting for far too long and was resigned to a fate she hadn’t quite hoped for. She peered into her brother’s room, where he lay with his head turned away from them, refusing to look. 

“He’s hurt,” Steve excused. 

“He’s something,” Max agreed. 

This lasted for weeks. Steve had hoped that once Billy was released, things would get better, but it’s been weeks since his release papers were signed and it’s been a whole lot more of the same. Steve will stop by the Hargrove-Mayfield house, oftentimes under the guise of picking Max up since Billy is not yet cleared to drive (and, even if he were, his car is sitting in Hawkins Gas & Auto waiting for a helping hand). Billy does not come outside to see him, and barely says hello when Steve pokes his head in Billy’s room. 

“He’ll get better,” Max keeps saying, and Steve thinks she is trying to convince herself as much as reassure him. She updates him as he drives her to the Wheelers, or to arcade, or to Byers’ house to see El. Billy is still in a lot of pain, and he curses more than anything else. He doesn’t let anyone help him clean or dress his wounds because he doesn't want anyone to touch him. Neil has ignored his son’s wishes, and Billy has fresh bruises to prove it. 

“I’m gonna take him to my house this weekend,” Steve declares one day. “My parents are out. You can tell your parents he’s with me or tell them you don’t know where he is. Whatever you think will keep his dad away.”

Max takes some convincing. In many ways, she has become her brother’s keeper. Even when he calls her horrible names or shoves her away from him, even when he refuses to speak to her for days on end, she takes on the role of protector. Steve understands that she might not want Billy too far away, too far to watch, but by the time Steve parks at the curb outside the Wheeler’s house, she concedes. “I think that would be good,” she says. “For both of you.”

Billy, for his part, does not want to go.

This does not surprise Steve, and when he tries to haul Billy to his feet to pull out the door, Billy lashes out. He swears and stumbles backwards, ripping his arm away and scratching Steve in the process. Steve tries his best not to act hurt. Max ushers Steve out of the room and tells him to wait in the car, tells him that she’ll handle Billy. Steve doesn’t know what she says to him, but eventually Billy emerges in the yard in his jacket and sunglasses, almost looking like himself again. He falls heavily into the passenger seat of Steve’s car and says nothing. Steve turns on the radio station he knows that Billy likes, but Billy doesn’t acknowledge it. He tries to strike up a conversation, but Billy only grunts at him. When they gets to Steve’s house, Billy follows Steve to his bedroom, keeping a few feet behind him. 

“Sit down,” Steve says. “Max said your dressings need changing? Do you need help?”

“No,” Billy says, voice low. He is already unbuttoning his shirt. The bandages beneath are thinner than the gauze padding they wrapped him with in the hospital. They don’t go all the way around his body anymore. This, at least, relieves Steve. It means he’s healing. It means he’s getting better, even if he isn’t acting it. 

“I’ll get you the stuff, then,” Steve says, and when Billy doesn’t look up he goes into the bathroom. He grabs everything Max told him he would need: the hydrogen peroxide, the washcloths- Billy will have the bandages in his bag, and Max told him to be sure he took the painkillers she would slip in there when Billy wasn’t looking. He fills up a bowl with soap and water and carries his supplies back to the bedroom.

Billy has peeled off his bandage, and is waiting with the angry red wound open on his chest. 

“That looks better,” Steve says, and he means it. 

“Don’t fucking lie,” Billy says. He reaches out his hand and Steve hands him the washcloth. He balances the bowl on the bed beside Billy, holding it steady as Billy dips a corner of the cloth. Billy lets out a sharp hiss when the cloth makes contact, and the sound makes Steve wince. Billy stills, and on instinct Steve reaches out to help. “Don’t,” Billy growls, and he jerks away. 

“Stop,” Steve says. “Come on, man, just let me help.”

Billy refuses. He continues to blot at his healing wounds as he rounds his back on Steve, moving further from him. He clenches his teeth but Steve can still hear the whistle of pain escaping between them. 

“Billy,” Steve says.

“I said don’t,” Billy snarls. 

“Billy,” Steve repeats, and he reaches for Billy again. Billy rises too quickly in an attempt to escape, and the sudden movement sends a ripple of pain through his chest that makes him cry out. His breath hitches, and his knees buckle, and he stumbles and staggers to the floor. “Woah!” Steve says, hurrying to catch him, and Billy’s whole body tenses when Steve’s hand touch his shoulders. 

“Get off of me!” Billy growls, voice strained, and Steve refuses. He slips an arm around Billy’s shoulders and he lowers himself beside him. Billy keeps telling him to get off, to leave him alone, and his throat gets tighter and tighter as his eyes well with tears he won’t let fall. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says. He eases the cloth out of Billy’s hands, but he doesn’t touch it to his skin. “Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothes. “I just want to help. Billy, please, I just want to help.”

“Just stop,” Billy pleads. “Just get the fuck away from me.”

“Why?” Steve asks. “Why do you want that?”

Billy just shakes his head. His muscles coil and tighten in Steve’s grip, but he’s stopped trying to get away. He’s stopped trying to make some bold escape. He is not quiet resigned, but there is not a whole lot of fight left in him, and Steve uses that to get closer. 

“Billy?” he asks. 

“You don’t know,” Billy says, “what I did.” 

He is shaking, but Steve does not want to hold him any tighter for fear of scaring him off. 

“What do you mean?” Steve asks him instead. “What did you do?”

“When it was in my head,” Billy says. There is a tear falling down his cheek and Steve wants nothing more than to wipe it away, to catch any others that might fall its wake, but he doesn’t want Billy to spook. He doesn’t want him to clam up again. He doesn’t want to lose him. “All those people,” Billy is saying. “I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want to.”

Billy’s small voice breaks Steve’s heart. He has never heard this kind of despair before, and if there was a way for him to dump the bowl of water over Billy and wash it all away, he’d do it a heartbeat. He lets his thumb rub gentle circles against Billy’s shoulder, and keeps going when Billy doesn’t shake him off or demand that he stop. 

“I know,” Steve says. “I know it wasn’t you.”

“It was my body,” Billy says. “My hands. I did it.”

“It made you do it,” Steve says. “That’s what El said.” 

“You don’t get it,” Billy says and, finally, he starts to pull away from Steve. Steve lets him, though he wants to hold on for dear life. He lets Billy slip out from beneath his arm and draw his knees up to his wounded chest. “I remember it. All of it.” 

“Billy,” Steve says. Billy shakes his head, lowers it into his hands. He doesn’t speak anymore and Steve doesn’t think he should push him. He wants, heart aching as he watches Billy Hargrove fall apart on his bedroom floor. When Billy calms down, Steve says his name again, and Billy looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. Steve silently holds the washcloth out to him. After a moment, Billy takes it. He returns to his work, keeping his distance from Steve, keeping his silence. Steve remains beside him just as quiet, helping in the only way Billy will allow: handing him a bandage, and offering sad smiles and warm bed to rest in. 


	4. ghost man on third.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186598347060/harringrove-and-85-or-86-whichever-inspires-more  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

With night comes nightmares.

It is not something Steve is unused to, but in the last few weeks they’ve gotten worse. They’ve gotten darker. They are not about fists and boozy breath and broken noses anymore; now, they are about shadows rising up into the sky and a deep voice ringing inside Billy’s own head. Steve does not know this because of what Billy has told him, but because of the murmurs he hears while Billy is still asleep. Billy won’t talk about his dreams once he leaves them. Steve has tried to get him to, but Billy’s stubbornness is tough opponent, so Steve is left fumbling through sleep-talk and the rare, raw moments when Billy first escapes those awful nightmares. 

Tonight, there are no words. This worries Steve more than anything else. 

He is startled awake by a whimper. That’s the only way Steve can think to describe the tiny, strangled sound that escapes Billy’s throat. He thinks it is the wind at first, but then he hears it again- louder, and achingly pathetic. 

“Billy?” Steve says, groggy and confused. He rolls over to find Billy’s back to him, his shoulders taut and trembling, one hand drawn up protectively over his face. When Steve pushes himself to his elbows, he can see sweat beading along Billy’s brow. Billy’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out besides that small, terrified whimper. “Hey,” Steve says. He grabs Billy’s shoulder, and Billy lashes out. He throws his arm out, striking Steve in the chest and letting out a growl and fizzles at the end- his voice cracks, and Steve thinks that the sound could be called a sob. He pushes his back against the wall, his hands hovering over Billy without touching him. 

For his part, Billy has turned over. His eyes are shut tight and his whole body fidgets and twists as he battles something that Steve cannot see. There is a thick sheen of sweat covering his bare torso and the blankets are tangled in a heap at his hips. Steve has never seen him so distraught- so desperate, so afraid. Even on his worst nights, Billy has never hit Steve- he’s never tried to defend himself, not physically, not before waking to catch himself. 

“Billy?” Steve says again. Billy’s chin jerks toward him, but this is the only sign that he’s been heard. “It’s a dream,” Steve whispers. “Billy, wake up.” 

Billy rolls further toward Steve, but he doesn’t wake up. He is shaking all over and the sight of him breaks Steve’s heart. He’d never say such a thing to Billy, knowing how deeply it would wound his fragile pride, but he aches as he watches Billy writhe against the sheets. When he cannot guide Billy out with words, he attempts touch once more. Steve gentle grabs Billy’s shoulder and Billy’s whole body goes stiff. 

“G’off,” Billy whines, pleading, his brow creasing deeply as he tries to pull away. 

“It’s me,” Steve whispers just as desperately. Billy whines again, though Steve cannot match the sound to any word in the dictionary. He lets his hand slip down, grabs hold of Billy’s bicep and shakes him. “Hey, come on,” he says when Billy violently tries to break free of his hold. “It’s Steve. Billy, it’s Steve.” 

Billy is still shaking as Steve wraps his arms around him. He is almost crying, too. His chest hitches and Steve holds him closer. Billy tries to fight him, but Steve won’t let him go. Billy struggles in Steve’s arms. He forms half-words that Steve starts to piece together- _don’t_ and _please_ and _stop_.

“You gotta wake up,” Steve pleads. “It’s a dream, Billy. It’s just a dream. You don’t have to be scared okay? Don’t be scared.” But Billy is scared, and he squirms and his hands ball up in fists and his jaw twitches and Steve can feel his heart beating hard and fast in his chest. “Don’t be scared,” Steve says again. “I’m right here.” 

He repeats this over and over again: “I’m right here. Billy, please. I’m right here.” 

Steve squeezes Billy against him and finally- _finally_ -feels his eyelashes flutter. His body stills. He is breathless and when he speaks, it sounds as if he’s been crying. 

“Steve?”

Steve holds him even closer, thankful for the clarity in Billy’s still-fearful voice. 

“You had another dream,” Steve tells him when Billy has calmed down enough to relax in Steve’s arms. He lets Steve rub small circles against his shoulder and lets his head be tucked beneath Steve’s chin. HIs breath evens out, but his heart still quickens when Steve shifts in the bed or changes his grip on Billy. “I think it was him,” Steve says. _Him_ is what Billy calls the Mind-Flayer. _Him_ is the worst he falls on, because he won’t give the thing a name or title or an identity beyond the terror it left inside in his head. Billy makes a small noise at the mention of the word, but says nothing. “Do you remember?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Billy says. His voice slurs with exhaustion, but Steve knows he won’t go back to sleep. He never does, and tonight, Steve won’t, either. He won’t leave Billy alone in the dark.

“Okay,” Steve says softly. He pulls Billy has close to him as Billy will allow. “It’s okay.”


	5. that brutal youth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original request/prompt: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186623756250/hi-for-the-angstfluff-prompt-list-could-you-do  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Something is wrong with Billy. 

It’s something Steve has been told over and over again, and over and over again he is told what that something is. The list, so far, reads: 1) he stood up Carol for a date; 3) he cursed out a clerk at the drug store for refusing to sell him cigarettes; 3) he gets into too many fights, some of which have caused lasting damage to parents’ properties that come out of allowance money and whole teenage cashier paychecks of kids too afraid to out the new town badass as the culprit. These, however, are not the things that concern Steve- or, rather, they are not his primary concern. No, Steve doesn’t care much about how all the things Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers and the merry band of misfit kids he’s accidentally adopted say about Billy. These are the things that Steve takes in stride, the things he hears Billy’s take on (he had to go find his sister- _step_ sister -who had snuck out had scared their parents half to death, he had a bad day, people piss him off, so on and so forth). The thing that’s wrong goes far beyond all of Billy’s usual transgressions.

It’s the split lip that Billy swears is from a fight with Tommy H. at last weekend’s “no parents, let’s get wasted” bash. It’s the bruised knuckles that crack and bleed when he holds the steering wheel. It’s the way he sometimes leans on the door for support when he gets out of the car, or winces when Steve touches him unexpectedly, or how he shows up to school in yesterday’s clothes all crinkled and slept-in. 

Today in particular, Steve is worried of the black-eye that has bloomed over the right side of his face. It is the most obvious injury that Steve has ever seen on him- worse than the bruising that sometimes speckles his chest or broken nose he swore was a keg party badge of honor; worse than the mild limp he sported for a week when he said that Jason Miller had blown it out during a pick-up basketball game. Billy cannot hide this one. He can’t throw a shirt over it; he can’t ice it better or milk it for sympathy. It is partnered with a gnarly scab slashed through his eyebrow, puckered and swollen. 

“What the hell happened?” Steve asks when he finally sees. Billy has avoided him all day, has ducked away and dodged him in the halls, has skipped classes, even tried to book it out of the parking lot before his sister ( _step_ sister, he’d always correct) made it to the car. 

“It’s nothing,” Billy says. 

“Nothing?” Steve asks. He is standing on the street outside the drug store where a different, younger clerk had forgone an ID check to sell Billy a pack of Marlboros. An unlit cigarette dangles between Billy’s lips and his hand is fishing in his pocket for his lighter. He stilled when Steve approached him, a deer caught in headlights, and now he flicks the lighter on. The little flame dances, but it’s shadows are not enough to obscure the deep purple surrounding Billy’s eye. 

“Yeah,” Billy repeats. He lights the cigarette and inhales, then blows a puff of smoke toward Steve. “Nothing.” 

“I haven’t seen you all day,” Steve says.

“I was busy,” Billy says. 

“You were avoiding me,” Steve says. Billy’s silence is all the answer he needs. “Am I seeing you tonight?”

Billy looks up and down the street. It is a Wednesday afternoon. There is a Girl Scout troops selling cookies outside the grocery store and an elderly man walking his dog around the far corner. A group of kids on skateboards practice kick flips down the road from the drug store. Billy pinches his cigarette between his fingers and lets the smoke swirl up in the wind. He sighs. “Fine.” 

They are discreet when they are together. They find quiet places, like back parking lots and the city limits. Tonight, Steve’s father is away on business, and his mother has trailed along. Instead of a party, he kept his plans open for Billy. He paces by the back door, watching the Billy’s headlights in the window. They never go anywhere together- not in a way that they can be seen. Billy circles nearby blocks to avoid being obvious, then parks two streets over and takes short cuts to Steve’s backyard. Steve hates the secrecy more than he will admit, but he won’t fight it. Billy won’t have it any other way. 

In the evening light, Billy’s eye somehow looks worse. Steve tries to control his reaction as he opens the sliding glass door to let Billy inside. 

“There’s beer in the fridge,” he says, though Billy is already beelining toward it. He takes out two cans and leaves one on the counter. He cracks open the other and drinks the whole damn thing in one fell swoop. Steve hands the second beer to him and takes a third out for himself. He follows Billy into the living room, where Billy does not sit but instead paces as he sips moderately at the second beer. 

“So,” Steve says eventually. He leans against the doorframe, one hand holding a can of Miller’s and the other stuffed in his pocket. “Are you going to tell me about that?”

“About what?” Billy asks. 

“That,” Steve says, motioning toward his own eye. Billy shakes his head so that his hair falls over his face and he carries on his pacing. “Tommy H. again?” Steve asks. “Or maybe it was Jason? Or someone new this time?”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Billy snaps.

“Just that you tried to hide a black eye from me all day.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Billy says. “Our paths not crossing does _not_ mean I was fucking avoiding you.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “But still. That looks nasty.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure it’s not infected?” Steve asks, and when Billy pauses to glare at him he points to his own brow. “That cut. Right there. It doesn’t look good.”

“I can leave if you’re so disgusted,” Billy snarls.

“Woah, hey,” Steve says. His tone softens and he holds out his hand defensively. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that, y’know, if that hurts, I can maybe try to help. I mean, I don’t know jackshit about patching people up, but I know my way around a first aid kit. Generally.”

“What, you wanna play nurse?” Billy teases.

“I’m being serious,” Steve says, exasperated. Billy says nothing. He downs the rest of his beer and sets the can on the coffee table as he collapses onto the couch. Steve hesitates before approaching him, and he tries not to react to the way Billy flinches when Steve sits beside him. “What’s really going on?” Steve asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, asshole,” Steve says. “The black eye. The bloody knuckles. The bruises. It’s not all fights.” Billy doesn’t look at him, but Steve studies his profile. His jaw is set. His head is down. He’s listening- he’s thinking. “I’m at all the same parties. I know shit in this town. I know that there was no pick-up game.” Billy stiffens, and he turns his head away so that Billy can no longer see his face. “I know there was no fight with Tommy H.”

“Fuck off,” Billy grumbles, voice low and sounding somewhere between guilty and furious. 

“Billy,” Steve says, and Billy’s head snaps toward him. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“Why do you even care?” Billy demands. “We’re not dating. There’s no feelings here.”

“Maybe there could be,” Steve says. 

“For you,” Billy says flatly.

“Yeah, for me,” Steve says. “Whatever. Even if it’s one-way, I fucking care about you, and you’re fucking worrying me. Okay? I care about you. So why don’t you just cut the shit and tell the damn truth?”

“That’s what you want, huh?” Billy says. He jumps to his feet, towering over Steve as he remains perched on the overstuffed couch cushions. He starts to pace again, in a shorter field this time, and Steve watches him carefully. “That’s what you want?” Billy says. “A fucking sob story? You want me to, like, share my fucking feelings? Spill out some dark secrets?”

“I want to know why you’re always hurt,” Steve says. He jumps up, too, as he says it and the suddenness startles them both. Billy stills. Steve hesitates, questioning himself, then square off his shoulders and moves toward Billy. “I want to know what this is all about,” he says, and he gently cups Billy’s cheek in his hand. Billy tears himself away, but his own hand reaches up where Steve’s had been.

“What if I told you?” he asks. “What if I tell that my old rails on me, huh? That he gets drunk and he gets mad and sometimes I get a fist to the face? What then, Harrington? Is that what you want to hear? That I don’t know when the next hit’s coming? That he knocked me out? What’s it matter to you?”

It takes a moment for Billy’s words to set in, but when they do, Steve’s heard sinks. 

“Billy,” he says, but Billy is shaking his head and moving for the door.

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Steve says. He catches Billy’s wrist as Billy tries to get past him. 

“What?” he snarls. 

“Is it true?” Steve asks. His fingertips touch the edge of Billy’s bruise and while Billy flinches, this time he doesn’t pull away. 

“Just let it fucking go,” Billy says.  
  
“Does your dad hurt you?” Steve asks. 

“Why do you care so much?” Billy asks.  
  
“I just-” Steve stumbles, because what he is supposed to say? Nothing is official between them. They’ve never so much as said _I love you._ They don’t wear labels. They aren’t anything, formally, to one another. But Steve knows that he cares for Billy, and that seeing Billy hurt makes him hurt, too. He knows that he wants Billy safe. “I don’t like being lied to.” 

He cups Billy’s cheek and Billy lets him. Billy lets Steve’s thumb graze over the outline of his darkened bruise. He jerks his head back when Steve touches the angry wound across Billy’s brow. “At least let me clean this?” he asks. “Seriously, Hargrove. I don’t need you toting diseases around.”

This gets the smallest smile out of Billy, and it is enough to relax Steve at least slightly. Billy’s shoulders sag. “Fine,” he relents. “That’s fi


	6. hot to the touch.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186738739895/a-harringrove-fluff-prompt-with-a-combo-of-i  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve Harrington does not get _sick_. 

Sure, there was a bought of ear infections in the second grade, but who didn’t go through that? And in the third grade there was the chicken pox so bad he still has little pockmarked scars speckling his sides. And, yeah, okay, there was the Great Strep Throat Fiasco of 1976, three weeks that will live in infamy. But outside of his pre-adolescent pink eye and the week of relentless bronchitis in freshman year, Steve Harrington does. not. get. sick. 

Except, of course, when he does.

It starts as a tickle in his throat. He chalks it up to hay fever, pops an allergy pill from his mother’s medicine cabinet, and heads to school. By the end of first period, the tickle has become a cough that reaches deeper and deeper into his chest as the day goes on. He wears his letterman jacket to third period to ward off the chill he swears is coming from the draft, even if Carol swears she can’t feel a thing and Nicole points out he’s not even near a vent. By lunch, Tommy has to catch him before he face-plants into his meatloaf. The resulting clamor catches Billy’s attention, as Steve shoves Tommy away from him and Carol starts to berate him for refusing Tommy’s help. 

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Billy asks, one brow raised as Steve stumbles toward the door. 

“Nothing,” Steve says a bit too aggressively. Billy holds up a hand in mock-defense.

“Shit,” he says. “Fine. Sorry I fucking asked.”

“It’s not,” Steve starts, then says, “I didn’t mean-” and then, “I’m fine.”

“Keep lying,” Billy shrugs. “Fuck if I care.”

But he can’t keep his eyes off of Steve as Steve retreats down the hall, slipping into the boy’s room where he will take up a stall for the remainder of the day. Billy thinks about going after him, but they’ve set rules for a reason: at school, it’s business as usual. No public displays, no cause for suspicion. They avoid each other when they can, and when they can’t, it’s the same old song and dance. So far, it seems to be working, and Billy’s not about to fuck it up for them both. 

Max, though, is an observant kid. She knows that something’s wrong when she slams the car door shut and the Camaro is still in park. They’r not speeding away. Billy has an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers and his drumming his fingers to a beat that isn’t there because he hasn’t switched the radio on. 

“Dustin said Steve looked sick yesterday,” she says casually.

“Why would I care?” Billy snaps. 

“Was he at school?” Max asks.

“Yeah,” Billy says. He doesn’t look at Max at all, and Max cranes her neck to see over the dashboard. She points to the red Beemer idling by itself in the high school parking lot.

“Isn’t that Steve’s car?” she asks.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Because he’s driven you home in it, dumbass.”

“The fuck did you just call me?”

“He’s in the car,” Max says. “I think. It looks like he is.”

“You obsessed with Harrington now?”

“You are.”

“You’re a real shit, Max, you know that?”

“Just go check on your boyfriend.”

“Max!” Billy slams his palm hard against the steering wheel, hard enough to shake the dash and loud enough to get Max to jump back in her seat. She shrinks back for a moment, her eyes wide, as Billy rounds on her- nostrils flared and eyes hot. She swallows thickly, then juts her chin out towards him.

“No one’s even here,” she says. “No one’s gonna see you.” 

Billy half-sighs, half-growls as he sags back against his seat. He scans the parking lot- which is, as Max pointed out, empty. Then he glares back at Max.

“You say anything about this to _anyone_ , you’re dead.”

“Who am I gonna tell?”

“Just shut up and stay in the car.”

Before Max can answer him, Billy flings open his door. He strides across the boundary between Hawkins Middle School and Hawkins High School and makes his way to Steve’s car, which has been parked but running since fifteen minutes after the final bell. Billy ducks down as he approaches, squinting into the car. Steve is in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, eyes half-closed. Billy hovers, waiting to be noticed, and when Steve doesn’t look at him he raps his knuckles against the window. 

Steve jolts awake, scrambling frantically to roll down the window and looking dazed as his wide eyes met Billy’s. “I don’t-” he starts, then stammers, “I can-”, and then he starts to say something else but Billy holds up a hand to stop him.

“Easy,” he says. Steve blinks rapidly, and his flushed cheeks turn redder as he registers who he’s look at it. As Steve is connecting dots, Billy is opening his car door and reaching down to unbuckle his seatbelt. 

“Woah, woah, woah, I thought we said-”

“Do you know what time it is?” Billy asks. “Everyone’s gone. Let’s go.”

“I don’t-”

“Out of the car, Harrington.”

“I have to-”

“-not fucking drive, is what you have to do.” 

“Billy, I-” But Billy has slipped a hand beneath Steve’s arm and is hauling him to his feet. Steve stumbles out of the car, falling hard against Billy as he tries to find his footing. His blush deepens further and he tries to push himself off, mumbling apologies.

“Relax,” Billy tells him, already beginning to guide him back to the Camaro. “I’m not gonna yell at you.” He opens the back door of the Camaro, giving Max a pointed look as he helps Steve into the back seat. “Lay down, Harrington. You look like shit.”

“S’not nice,” Steve grumbles, but he does fall against the back bench of the car. Billy falls heavily into the driver’s seat and tells Max to turn around. She rolls her eyes, but does as he says, and she says nothing as Billy drives right past Cherry Lane and makes the sharp left turn onto Steve’s street. His parents are out for the week- Max knows this because Billy had spending nights at Steve’s, something that Dustin asked her about when he stopped by to borrow something and saw Billy’s car parked around the corner. 

With no parents home, Billy parks in the driveway. He secures Steve’s arm around his shoulders and instructs Max to take Steve’s keys. She uses the house key to open the front door, and then Billy tells her not to break anything.

“I’m not five, asshole.”

“Shut up and sit down, shitbird.”

Max settles herself in the living room as Billy hauls Steve up the stairs, Steve protesting the whole way up, swearing up and down that he can walk on his own and he doesn’t need help and he’s _not sick, Billy, stop saying that_ because Steve Harrington does _not_ get sick. 

“Get in the fucking bed,” says Billy once they make it to Steve’s room.

“Oh, that’s how this is gonna go?” Steve hums with a sly grin, but his charm is hindered by the hacking cough that breaks up his words. Billy takes a pair of sweatpants from Steve’s drawer, then a t-shirt from another.

“No way in hell,” Billy says. “I’m not catching that shit.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Steve says. “I don’t get sick.”

“Whatever, Harrington,” Billy says. He tosses the clothes at Steve. “You look like road kill.”

“You’re a real dick, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Billy says. “I’ve heard. Get changed. I’ll be right back.”

Billy leaves Steve in a bundle of blankets and gym clothes and retreats down the stairs. Max, who had been in the living room flipping through channels on a television she thinks is probably bigger than Mike’s and Dustin’s combined, abandons her search when she hears Billy start to rummage through the kitchen. She watches from the doorway as he pulls a bottle of apple cider vinegar from Mrs. Harrington’s cupboard. He pulls little spice bottles from a rack on the counter and starts to shake them all into a cup: onion powder, garlic, ginger. He even cuts a lemon in half and squeezes the juice in. Just the thought of that combination makes Max wrinkle her nose.

“Are you gonna poison him or something?”

“What did I tell you?” Billy snaps.

“I mean, that shit is rank.”

“Max,” Billy warns.

“Whatever,” Max sighs. “Just try not to kill him with that shit. I like Steve.”

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Billy says. He uses a spoon to mix the possibly-not-poison, then grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and pushes past Max to get back upstairs. He stops off in the bathroom and raids the medicine cabinet, shaking some Tylenol from its bottle before returning to Steve, who is half-dozing and half-dressed when Billy arrives. “Oh, yeah,” Billy says. “You’re not sick at all.”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbles. Billy sets his haul on the nightstand. He reaches for Steve, who squirms and ducks away from him until Billy’s palm lands against his forehead. 

“Shit, Harrington,” Billy says. His tone softens and he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. He moves his hand from Steve’s forehead and gentle brushes Steve’s hair out of his face. “C’mere,” he says. “Sit up.” He piles pillows behind Steve’s head as Steve pushes himself upright. 

“It’s nothing,” Steve says. “I’m fine,”

“Uh-huh,” Billy says. He grabs the concoction he’d made downstairs and offers the cup to Steve. “Drink this.” 

“What the fuck is that?” Steve asks, turning his head away from the cup and raising one hand to push it away. 

“Yeah, I know,” Billy says. “It smells like shit. But you’ll feel better, trust me.” Steve looks warily at Billy and reluctantly takes his offering. He takes one sip, then coughs and tries to hand it back to Billy, but Billy opens his palm so he can’t take it back. “Nope,” he says. “Whole thing. Come on. Chug it.” 

Steve groans, but he tips his head back and downs the rest of the offending drink. Billy takes the empty glass, then offers Steve the Tylenol and water, which he downs like a chaser. 

“What the hell kind of poison was that?” Steve asks.

“Something my mom used to give me,” Billy says, “when I was a kid. I got these really nasty colds, and she was all into natural remedies. Most of it sounded like bullshit, but this shit works.”

“You swear?” Steve asks. “Because I think it made everything on my inside want to be on my outside.”

“It’ll settle down,” Billy says. As they talk, Steve slips further down on the pillows and seems to move closer and closer to Billy. Billy sets the water bottle on the nightstand and settles his now-freed hand against Steve’s back as Steve drops his head onto Billy’s lap. 

“Hey, Billy?” Steve mumbles sleepily. Billy rubs his thumb against the back of the Steve’s neck, and Steve’s breathing begins to slowly even out, every few breaths punctuated with a tiny cough. 

“Yeah?” Billy says.  
  
“I think I’m sick,” Steve says.

“No shit,” Billy says. “How’re you feeling now?”

“Um,” Steve says. “Okay. I think. Your mom’s weird poison thing is kind of working.”

“You want me to go?” Billy asks. “You should get some sleep.”

“I can sleep with you here,” Steve says. 

Billy listens to the muffled sound of the television downstairs, thinks of the distance between himself and Max and Neil, feels the comforting weight and Steve settled sleepily in his lap and says, “Then I guess I’m staying.”


	7. i felt it too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186785657625/hello-im-the-one-who-made-the-fic-rec-you  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve didn’t see it happen.

He saw the blood. He saw Max crying. He saw paramedics swarming like bees around a broken body, saw the bloodied, sweat-soak rag of a shirt cut away and saw fists pound on a chest that was barely held together. He saw Mike and Eleven ushered away, saw them vanish in the sea of flashing lights outside as more ambulances and fire engines and police cruisers flood the parking lot. He saw tubes and wires and gauze attached to the source of her deepest hurt and he felt his heart sink when Billy Hargrove is strapped, limp and lifeless, onto a stretcher. 

“I have to go with him,” Max starts to say, rising even as medics try to bandage her cuts and scrapes. Steve can hear her as he rushes down the stairs. He sees her shaking an EMT off her and straining to get closer to Billy as he is carried outside. “You can’t just take him. Billy! I have to go with him. He’s my brother! He’s my brother!” 

As Billy is lifted into the back of an ambulance, one sympathetic medic offers her hand. Steve catches her eye just before the doors swing shut. 

Billy is brought to Hawkins Mercy Hospital, where he is quickly evaluated and airlifted to a larger facility in Chicago and rushed into surgery. The papers talk about a single teenage victim left in “critical condition” following the Starcourt fire, but don’t mention Billy by name- his father won’t allow it. The family has moved into a motel on the outskirts of the hospital grounds, and Neil is giving reporters hell. He won’t talk to anyone, and he won’t let Susan or Max talk, either. If Billy wanted to talk, he couldn’t. He’s been in a medically induced coma since his surgery. Neil has used the money he hasn’t spent on the motel room and Billy’s care on a private investigator to find out what really happened, unconvinced that the gashes all over his body could really be from a fire.

“He doesn’t even care,” Max says over radio static. “Not about Billy. He just wants someone to sue, so he can get paid.” 

Steve has taken to camping out by Cerebro. The kids kept him company for the first few days, but the novelty of sleeping under the stars wore off quickly. Steve, for his part, has not done much sleeping. Whenever he tries, all he can see is Billy’s body, sweat-drenched and sickly, being carted away under sirens. He dreams about worse outcomes: about the heart monitor flatlining, about Billy bleeding out on the tiled floor, about Billy’s veins going black and that _thing_ ripping him to pieces from the inside out. 

One night, he dreams about Billy sleeping beside him. He feels Billy’s breath against his skin and his arms around his middle. He has scars were all his wounds were, and Steve is afraid to touch them. He is studying them when Billy becomes restless; he tosses and turns like he’s having a nightmare, and as he moves his scars start to open. Blood spills from their seams and soaks Billy’s shirt, and then the sheets, and it gets all over Steve’s hands as he tries to staunch the bleeding. He is desperate, frantic, but he does not work fast enough. He thinks that all of Billy’s blood is on his bedroom floor and when he looks at Billy’s face he knows he’s gone and-

Steve wakes with a scream. His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat. He tries his best to swallow it back down and he frantically grabs for Cerebro’s receiver. 

“Max?” he asks, voice bleary and shaky. “Max, are you there?”

There is some feedback and then a soft click.

“What the shit?” Max whispers. 

“It’s Steve.”

“I know,” Max says. “What are you doing?”

“I know,” Steve groans. “I know, it’s late. I’m sorry. I just- is Billy okay?”

“He’s been sedated for a week, he’s got a tube shoved down his throat, and he’s peeing into a plastic bag,” Max says. “So, he’s not great.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. I know.”

There’s a long stretch of silence before Max says, “The nurses are talking about taking the breathing tube out. If he can breathe on his own, they think they can wake him up soon.” When Steve doesn’t say anything, she continues, “Neil wants him out of here.” After another long pause, she says, “He…he looks like shit, Steve. He looks-”

“Don’t say it,” Steve says. “Don’t say what I think you’re gonna say.”

"I have to go,” Max says.

“Wait!” Steve says. “Max?”

“What?”

“Just…promise me you’ll tell me if anything changes?”

“I already said I would.”

“Good or bad,” Steve says.

“Good or bad,” Max agrees. “Signing off.” 

It’s another few days before Billy is taken off his breathing tube, and a few days more before Max says he’s woken up. The news makes Steve’s heart jump. 

“He’s pretty out of it,” Max says. “He can’t stay awake for long. He’s, like, in and out right now. He’s still all fucked up on pain meds. But the doctor said he’s stable enough to be transferred.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks.

“We’re coming back to Hawkins.” 

On the day that Billy is returned in Hawkins Mercy Hospital, the kids make a trip to see Max. Steve chauffeurs, only to be disappointed to be directed to Cherry Lane instead of the hospital. He hangs out long enough to get an update: Billy still sleeps most of the day, he’s rarely coherent when he is awake, but the doctors are happy with his progress and his father is trying to get him discharged. 

“They can’t let him go, can they?” Steve asks, worry gripping him so hard it hurts his chest. “They wouldn’t do that, would they? They can’t let him go if he’s still like that?”

“I don’t know,” Max says. “I mean, the infection’s cleared. His stitches aren’t out yet, and they have him on this feeding tube. His doctor doesn’t want to let him go, but Neil keeps talking about home care, so…I don’t know.”

That night, Steve has another nightmare. He sees Billy in his bedroom on Cherry Lane, but there is an IV pole and a whole array of tubes attached to him- digging into his stomach and stuck up his nose and poked in the crook of his arm. There are little circles stuck in the spots of his chest that aren’t covered in gauze and their gray wires lead to a machine that prints his heart rhythms on a strip of tape. Steve watches the tiny needle print shaky little lines. 

He approaches Billy, his heart hammering, but as he gets closer he sees another figure in the room. There is a shadow that falls over Billy and Steve feels a need to hide. He presses himself against the wall and he watches as the shadow turns into Billy’s father. He is yelling, but Steve can’t make out what he’s saying. When Neil Hargrove raises a fist, Steve panics. He lunges forward, but it is as if there is a forcefield surrounding Billy’s room. Steve tries to scream, but everything he wants to shout gets stuck in his throat: _don’t touch him, get away from him, leave him alone_. Steve fights and fights in vain, and the little needle tracking Billy’s heart rate trembles when Neil strikes his son. 

Steve’s eyes pop open. 

He is soaked in sweat and his heart is throbbing in his ears. He looks to the clock and the little red numbers blink out two sixteen a.m. Steve scrubs his palms over his eyes. He sighs. He throws his blankets off and pulls on shoes, not bothering to tie them as he grabs his keys and forces his bedroom window open. As carefully as he can, Steve clamors down to the ground and sneaks into the driveway. He slips around his father’s car and ducks into his own, speeding off without a clear plan in mind. 

The hospital comes into view before Steve realizes where he’s headed. His is the only car in visitor parking, and the halls are empty when he goes inside. He uses to stairwells to get to Billy’s floor (which he had guessed about, because Max had said he’d moved from Intensive Care to the recovery wing of the Medical-Surgical unit). He sneaks passed the nurse’s station and whispers Billy’s name over and over again as he reads the little tags outside the door.

“Hargrove, Hargrove, Hargrove,” he repeats like a mantra until the name on the door matches the one on his tongue. 

The door is open a crack, and its hinges squeak when Steve pushes on it. The lights are off save for one thin strip buzzing softly over Billy’s head and the little green and red numbers boasting his heart rate and oxygen levels. 

Billy himself looks small, swallowed up by the white hospital sheets and the machines towering around him and all the bandages and stitches wound around him and holding him together. There is a plastic strip feeding oxygen into his nose and heart leads stuck to his chest. A little white clip is clamped loosely on one finger, and a thick plastic tube snakes out from beneath the blanket near his belly. His lips are chapped and parted and his eyelids flutter as he sleeps. The sight of him makes Steve ache. He hovers in the doorway, afraid to go closer. When he finally does approach Billy, Steve is afraid to touch him. He is terrified to hurt him. He pulls a vinyl-padded chair closer to Billy’s bedside and sits. 

“Billy?” Steve stammers. “I don’t know if you can hear me.”

He raises a shaky hand to take Billy’s, mindful of the IV feeding fluids into his veins. 

“I needed to see you,” Steve says. “I’m sorry I haven’t come.” Steve gently squeezes Billy’s hand. His eyes flit to the heart monitor, which tracks a strong and steady beat. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I just…God, you’d call me a pussy if you heard me right now, but I just really needed to see that you were safe. And alive. And I really need you to stay that way. Okay? I need you to be okay. Please, just…please be okay.”


	8. alone together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186850144920/ooo-a-fic-about-celebrating-a-birthday-or-holiday  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy hates birthdays. Or, rather, he hates _his_ birthday, because for all of Billy’s preening, for the weight and breadth of his ego, for the way he walks with shoulders back and chin up and chest puffed out, he doesn’t like attention that he hasn’t asked for. He doesn’t like people singing to him or telling him to blow out candles; he doesn’t like people shoving gift bags in his hands and demanding that they open it so that they can watch; he doesn’t like being asked what he wants to do, or sitting through family dinners that he knows no one wants to be at, or opening birthday cards from uncles and cousins who don’t bother with him the other 364 days of the year. And so, when Steve asks Billy what he wants to do for his birthday, Billy says, “Nothing.” - and he means it. 

Steve, however, _loves_ birthdays, and absolutely hates the thought of letting Billy’s pass by without at least a smidgen of pomp and a dash of circumstance. This is precisely what has him parked outside of the Palace Arcade on a Friday afternoon, checking the lot for Billy’s Camaro before slipping inside and beelining for the rag-tag group of fourteen-year-olds crowded around Dig Dug. 

Dustin notices him first, and lets it be known by shouting, “Harrington!” 

The whole party reacts, half a dozen heads turning to watch Steve weave uncomfortably through the rows of blinking, shouting, buzzing machines. He waves at Dustin- half a greeting, half a desperate _please don’t draw attention like that_ signal. Behind the group, the game chimes it’s ending music, which draws Max’s attention. 

“Shit,” she says, turning back to the game. She swears again under her breath as she sees her score flashing across the screen. “I totally had that!”

“What are you doing here?” Dustin asks as Steve gets closer. 

“Hey, man, don’t get all excited,” Steve says. “I just need to talk to Max.”

“What about?” Lucas asks. 

“About Billy?” El asks.

“Ugh, not Billy,” Dustin groans.

“What about Billy?” asks Mike.

“Is something wrong?” asks Will.

“Woah, hey, what’s with the third degree?” Steve says. “I just need to talk to Max for a minute, okay? Is that okay?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Max says, pushing through the group and past Steve. The group throws more questions, which Steve fumbles with before letting them all hang. He trails after Max, finally catching up to her at the back of the arcade. “This better be good, because you made me lose my streak.”

“It’s about Billy’s birthday.”

“This again?” Max says. “Steve, I know you mean well, but drop it. Okay? Neil’s gonna force him into a family dinner that he’s gonna scarf down and then he’s gonna disappear. It’s what he does.”

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Steve says. “But that’s what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where he disappears to,” says Steve. 

“What?” 

“Do you know where he goes?” Steve asks.

“Why would I know that?” asks Max. “He wants to be alone. He’d be pretty shit at hiding if I knew where he went.”

“Max, come on.”

“You come on!” Max says. “I already told you I’m not spying on my brother for you.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’m sorry.” He is quiet for a moment, and he drops his head. Max watches him carefully as he seems to be thinking, chewing at his lower lip and figuring out something else to say. Eventually, he just says, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Max sighs, and she moves to walk past him and back to her friends, who have drifted to Ms. PacMan at the end of the back row and who all snap their heads back to the game when they catch Max’s gaze. She rolls her eyes and starts to move toward them, then pauses. 

“The beach,” she says without turning around.

“I’m sorry?”

“Back home,” Max says, turning on one heel. “In California. Billy used to sneak out after dinner and go to the beach.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, and when Max doesn’t elaborate he says, “That would be a lot more helpful if we had beaches in Hawkins.”

“He likes the water,” Max explains. “Try one of the lakes, maybe. But if you find him, don’t expect him to be happy to see you. He’s an ass. His birthday makes it worse.”

“Water,” Steve repeats.

“Yeah, shitbrain,” Max says. “Water.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Whatever. Just…don’t piss him off, okay? Because then I have to deal with him.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Sure. Okay.”

On Billy’s birthday, Steve borrows Dustin’s walkie talkie (which Steve had to bribe him to get, as Dustin is staunchly disapproving of Steve’s relationship with Billy, and will only help Steve’s elaborate schemes if there is free ice cream involved). Max had agreed to signal Steve when Billy heads out for the night under the condition that Steve would abandon ship if Billy seemed upset that Steve had crashed his annual birthday brooding. Steve paces the length of his bedroom up and down and up and down until the walkie crackles with static. 

“He turned down Woodlawn Avenue,” Max whispers. “I think he’s headed to the quarry.”

Steve has left his keys waiting in the ignition of his BMW. He revs the engine and peels off down the street. When he gets to the quarry, Billy’s Camaro is parked but empty, and Steve makes a mental note to thank Max for her intuition. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts his walk to the rocky edge, heart pounding as he searches. 

Billy is perched precariously on the cliff’s edge, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Its orange embers tumble down, down, down when he flicks the ash away. Steve stands a ways off, watching him, watching the way his eyes track the ripples in the water below. 

Steve clears his throat, and the noise startles Billy.

“I know you wanted to be alone,” Steve says. “But is your birthday and all.”

“What are you doing here, Harrington?” Billy asks. He sounds only slightly annoyed, which Steve reads as a good sign. He steps closer, shrugging his shoulders.

“I just wanted to see you,” he says. Billy snarls, but doesn’t move away when Steve stands next to him. He takes a long drag on his cigarette as Steve sits beside him, swinging his legs over the edge and watches the smoke from Billy’s cigarette curl up into the rustling wind.

“How’d you find me?” Billy asks.

“Lucky guess?” says Steve.

“Or Max figured it out,” Billy sighs.

“Hey, I know you well enough to-” Steve stops talking when Billy’s eyes meet his. He stammers, then sighs. “Okay, fine,” he concedes. “But don’t get mad at her, okay? She didn’t want to tell me. I swear.”

Billy only grunts, and it’s only when he turns away that Steve notices a wet glimmer in his eye. He frowns. Billy lowers his chin. He takes another puff from his Marlboro and blows it toward the water below. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Billy says, quick and harsh, and Steve knows he shouldn’t push, not matter how much he wants to. He’s already crashed Billy’s birthday ritual without being thrown into he quarry. He reminds himself to count his blessings and decides to change the subject. He tugs a card from his coat pocket and offers it silently to Billy. “What’s this?” Billy asks.

“What’s it look like?” Steve asks. “It’s a birthday card.” When Billy doesn’t take it, Steve sighs. “You don’t have to open it here. Okay? I know you don’t like that. It’s just a stupid little thing.”

Billy hesitates one moment longer, then accepts the card. He turns it over in his hands and it almost looks like he’s going to pop open the flap. Instead, he raises it in his hand and says, “Thanks,” before tucking it into his own pocket. He turns back to the water, resuming his silence, and Steve lets a few minutes pass before speaking again. 

“I can leave,” he says. “If you want me to.”

But Billy’s hand covers his on the ground, and Steve nearly jumps at his touch. He looks down at Billy’s hand, at his fingers squeezing around Steve’s own, and then he catches Billy eye. 

“You sure?” he asks. Billy doesn’t say anything, but he gives a slight nod and Steve smiles. They lapse into silence again, though this one is more comfortable. Billy finishes his cigarette and flicks it over the edge, then pulls another from his shirt pocket. Steve’s heart drops when Billy lets his hand go to light the cigarette. 

After more silence, Billy says, “My mom used to bring me to the beach on my birthday.”

“Every year?” Steve asks.

“Until she left,” Billy says. “Yeah.”

Steve wants to ask if this is why Billy escapes on his birthday, but he knows he doesn’t have to and he think the question will just annoy Billy, so he keeps his mouth shut. He lets Billy drag on his cigarette, and when Billy places his hand on Steve’s again, Steve holds it gently. They sit together, looking out at the water, as the sky gets dark and the stars prick light against it. When Billy flicks his second spent cigarette, he breathes a sigh and rests his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve stays quiet, but when Billy doesn’t move he presses a soft kiss on the top of Billy’s head. 

“Happy birthday, Hargrove.” 


	9. where is your boy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186852676795/i-hope-youre-feeling-better-i-have-a-fic  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

“No.”

Billy’s answer is clear, curt, succinct. He doesn’t even take his eyes off the road. When Steve tries to ask again, Billy slams his foot on the accelerator, and when Steve tries a third time he turns up the radio so loud Steve thinks the windows might break from the bass. Steve switches the knob back the other way. 

“Come on,” he says.

“No.”

“Billy.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Billy, come on,” Steve says. “It’s one night. I promised them.”

“Oh, you _promised_ them. Well, that changes everything.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“What?”

“That tone,” Steve says. “You’re being a real douche.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Billy says. “The douche that doesn’t want to waste a Saturday night with a bunch of thirteen year olds. Real fuckin’ asshole.”

“You are,” Steve says.

“Uh-huh,” Billy says. “What exactly did you tell them? That you had a date?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “So?”

“Problem solved. You’ll be on your date and they can do their stupid- what is it again?”

“It’s a movie night, Billy,” Steve says. “Movies? You know them?”

“A Star Wars marathon,” Billy recalls. “Great way to spend the weekend.”

“It’s a few hours,” Steve says.

“Per movie,” Billy says. 

“We can bail after one,” Steve offers. “One, Billy.”

“Do they even know who your date is?” Steve is silent, brow furrowed as he studies Billy’s profile. Billy lets the question hang in the air between them, and no matter hard Steve hopes, the whistle of wind fighting through the cracked-open windows crack is not enough to wash it out. Eventually, Billy says, “That’s a no.”

“So what?” Steve says defensively. “What does it matter?”

“They’re gonna be pissed at you.”

“Max isn’t pissed,” Steve says.

“Not at you,” says Billy. “You didn’t get the speech.”

“She gave you a speech?”

“Yeah, there was a fuckin’ speech, Harrington,” Billy says. 

“What’d she say?”

“Don’t change the subject.” 

“I just wanna know what she said!”

“Maybe you’ll hear the flip side from her little shit friends.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, listen. I get it. You’re not their favorite person.”

“No shit.”

“They can warm up to you,” Steve says. “You have me and Max to vouch for you.”

“Sure,” Billy scoffs. 

“And Nancy and Jonathan will be there,” Steve says. “So it’s not just us.”

“Like that makes it better,” Billy says.

“We watch one movie, and we’re gone,” Steve says. “I can, like…get sick or something.”

“What are we, sneaking around mom and dad?”

“It’s a fucking excuse,” Steve says. “I’ll start to feel sick, you can take me home, then we have the whole night to ourselves. Okay? And if it all goes to shit, I won’t ask you to hang out with them again.”

“You wanna try that last part again?”

Steve sighs heavily. “It’s one Saturday night, and I’ll never ask you to hang out with them again. Unless-” But Billy holds up a finger, his hand hovering dangerously over the volume knob. Steve sighs again. “That’s it,” he says. “Deal?”

Billy is quiet. He takes a few more turns in silence, then says, “Fine. Deal.” 

—

“Who do you think he’s bringing?” Dustin asks.

“Steve?” asks El.

“I bet it’s Lori Rollins,” says Dustin. “She’s been spending a _lot_ of time at the video store if you know what I mean.”

“All the girls spend a lot of time at the video store,” Mike says. 

“Could be Jenny Graves,” suggests Lucas. 

“What about that girl he’s always hanging out with?” asks Mike.

“It’s not Robin,” says Will. 

“How do you know?” asks Lucas.

“It’s definitely not Robin,” says Dustin.

“What does it matter?” Max says a bit too harshly. “We’re gonna find out soon anyway.”

“Woah,” Lucas says. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” Max snaps. She is on the couch, and she lets her head fall back against the cushions and rolls her eyes. El slides closer to her- if anything else, for moral support. She doesn’t know exactly what’s making Max so agitated, but she’s been around the Hargrove-Mayfield house enough to have a guess. She’s heard two sets of footsteps sneaking in late at night when she sleeps over, and before they rode Max’s bike to Mike’s house, it looked like Billy was getting ready to go somewhere, too. 

“Who are we still waiting on?” Nancy asks. She enters the room with popcorn in hand and Jonathan in tow. Jonathan sweeps the room, counting heads as he does.

“Steve, right?”

“And his date,” says Dustin.

“Steve’s bringing a date?” asks Nancy.

“We’re trying to figure out who it is,” says Lucas. Then there is a knock at the door.

“Looks like we’ll find out,” says Jonathan. Dustin is the first to bounce up, and he clamors to the front door with the other boys in tow. Max and Eleven hang back, Max staring up at the ceiling as El listens to the commotion at the front door. 

—

“One movie,” Steve says, “then we’re gone.”

“I heard you the first three hundred times.”

“It’ll be fine,” Steve says. 

“Are you saying that for yourself or for me?”

“Both,” Steve says. “Definitely both.”

Steve is visibly nervous as they approach the Wheelers’ front door. Billy walks a few steps behind him, his hands shoved into his pockets and his head down. He waits, and then nudges Steve when he makes no move to knock on the door. Steve jolts forward, and he knocks so frantically that Billy has to pull his arm away to stop the madness. Billy opens his mouth to speak, but whatever he planned on saying is lost when the door swings open to four smiles that quickly falter when they catch sight of Billy. 

“Uh,” says Steve. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Will, Mike, and Lucas say as Dustin shouts, “What the shit?”

In the living room, Max squeezes her eyes shut. “Here it goes,” she groans.

“Here what goes?” El asks.

“Billy’s here.” 

“Billy?” Jonathan asks.

“Billy Hargrove?” says Nancy. 

“Well, at least everyone knows my name,” Billy says. He enters the room behind Steve and with the boys all crowding around them, a million questions tossed at them from four different voices. 

“Billy is your date?” says Dustin, and Lucas asks Max if she knew about this, and Will asks how long they’ve been seeing other, and Mike asks why Steve brought _Billy Hargrove_ to his house, and then Nancy and Jonathan jump up with another thousand questions on the tips of their tongues and no voices to ask them with. They look at each other, and then to El and Max. El seems only mildly surprised, and Max is rising off the couch.

“Enough!” she shouts. “Jeez. At least let them sit down.” 

“So you knew?” Dustin accuses. 

“He’s my brother,” Max says. “Of course I knew.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” asks Lucas.

“Because it’s none of her business,” Billy growls, and Steve grabs his wrist when he sees the heckles going up. Billy snarls, but concedes. He stays behind Steve, shaking his head, and El offers them both a seat on the couch. Max turns as well and sits on the other end so that Billy and Steve are sandwiched between the girls. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she tells her brother.

“I didn’t want to,” Billy says back.

“Dustin said it was okay,” Steve says defensively.

“You said you had a date,” Dustin says. “You didn’t say who the date was with.”

“Well it was with Billy,” Steve snaps. “Okay? Here he is.”

“Steve,” Nancy says, and Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No. You guys are jumping down our throats. Now, you wanted me to come watch movies with you, so I’m here, and Billy’s here, too, because you told me I could bring him. Okay? You said I could bring him-”

“Steve,” Billy says. He tries to take Steve’s arm, but Steve swats him away. 

“No,” he says. “They’re being shits to you.”

“I think everyone’s just surprised,” Nancy says. 

“About both you,” Jonathan adds. 

“Well, they’re together,” Max says. 

“It’s not exclusive,” Billy clarifies.

“You haven’t gone out with anyone else,” Max says.

“You spying on me?”

“I’m observant,” Max says. “And you’re exclusive.” She turns her attention to the group and says, “They’ve been together for weeks.”

“Thanks for that, Max,” says Steve, and she waves him off. The group quiets down. Steve absently reaches for Billy’s hand and Billy lets him take it, though he keeps his head down so that he can’t see all the eyes on them. Max moves so that she’s sitting on the edge of the couch- defensive, protective, placing herself in front of her brother. El, too, leans herself forward. There is a long and awkward pause. 

“We should start the movies,” El says eventually. She looks at everyone in turn, then to puts her attention on Steve and Billy. “Right?”

They look at each other, and then to El. “Yeah,” Steve says at the same time Billy says, “Sure.” And with this settled, Jonathan pops in the first tape, and everyone settles in for the night. Steve and Billy pretend to ignore all the stares that they get, the heads that swivel to peek at them and quickly turn around when one of them (or, perhaps worse, Max) notices. 

As the first movie nears its end, Steve whispers to Billy, “Should I get sick now?”

At this, Billy smiles and half-laughs. “Only if you really sell it.”


	10. little devotional.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orignal prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186900601175/36-and-45-of-that-prompts-list-for-harringrove  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Stark white hospital walls and the strong, sterile scent of antiseptic have become the norm for Steve. He slips through the dark halls, praying to remain unseen. He watches the nurses’ station- waits until the nurse in charge takes a phone call and darts past her desk. He counts the doors- one, two, three, four -and finds the fifth one left open a crack. He pushes steps inside and closes the door behind him; leans his back against it and breathes a sigh of relief.

Billy is asleep, like he always is.

There are wires attached to him: oxygen fed through his nose, a feeding tube snaked from his belly, little white discs that read his heart rate, catheters stuck in intimate places and an IV line feeding antibiotics and saline through his veins. The hospital gown he wears is backwards, with the open back facing front for easier access to the bandages holding him together. His breath is shallow. There is a soft sheen of sweat beading across his brow. Steve brushes away his damp hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

Billy does not respond, but there is a slight jump on his heart monitor. Steve has taken this as a greeting. _Hey, Harrington,_ it says. _What the hell are you doing here?_

“Just checking in,” Steve whispers. He lowers himself into the chair at Billy’s beside- the chair previously occupied by Max, or by Susan Mayfield, but never by Neil Hargrove. His father spends his time chewing out nurses and pacing the halls and calling lawyers and reporters. Steve opens the top drawer of the faux-wooden nightstand tucked against the wall. He moves the television remote and the back-dated magazines aside until he fishes out a note from the bottom of the pile. It is in Max’s spidery handwriting. 

_No change_ , it reads. _Step-dad refused more pain meds._

Neil Hargrove has thwarted every chance of recovery. He had Billy taken off of morphine, said no to Vicodin and Oxycodone, even turned away nurses with their paper cups of ibuprofen. He won’t let Billy have much of anything. They’re lucky he’s approved of Billy’s continued sedation; lucky he hasn’t had his son discharged (against medical advice, of course, but so far it seems that Neil Hargrove doesn’t care much about medical advice). Billy’s doctor is a smart and able man, but Steve thinks that if Neil Hargrove pushed him, he’d fold under the pressure. He thinks that Billy must have someone someone looking out for him, someone in the ever-present “out there” that wants him to get better. 

At the bottom of the note, in a hasty scrawl, are two words: _Not ok._

Steve knows this already.

He knows that Billy is not okay. He knows that Billy is a long way from okay, that he’s not out of the woods, that Steve might come back tomorrow to an empty bed and a note with the word “morgue”. He hangs on to hope, though. He hangs on because Billy needs him to, because that’s the pact that he and Max made. They would stay strong for Billy, because Billy needs someone to be strong for him. That they would look out for Billy, because no one else seems to care. 

Billy’s exhales whistle. Steve holds onto his hand and leans in close, rests his head against Billy’s and breathes with him. 

“I know this sucks,” Steve tells him, just like he always does, “and it’s okay if you’re tired. If this is too much, it’s okay.”

There is never any response for Billy. Steve still hopes that there will be, that maybe Billy might move a finger or even hold his hand, but he remains as limp as lifeless as he was when they hauled his body out of the wreckage of the mall. Steve sighs. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know you hate the mushy stuff.”

He sighs heavily and when he opens his eyes he tries not to be disappointed to see Billy exactly the same: eyes closed, lips parted, unresponsive. Steve rubs his thumb against the back of Billy’s hand, mindful of the IV lines stuck in his veins. He knows that if Billy were awake he’d tell him to quit it, to leave him alone, to stop being so needy, and his heart aches for all of that to happen.

“You know, I really can’t imagine a world without you,” he says, and he laughs at how ridiculous he sounds, because he knows that Billy would tell him he’s being dramatic. “It’s true,” he says, answering Billy’s dialogue in his own head. “I want you to be okay,” Steve continues. “I want you to be here,” he says. “But if it’s too much, I get it. If you’re in too much pain, I get it.”

He imagines Billy waking up. He imagines those blue eyes full of life and blinking up at him. He imagines Billy telling him to cut the shit and pulling Steve into bed with him, letting Steve lay next to him and maybe even letting Steve hold him the way he sometimes used to when he was drunk and exhausted after parties that left him bruised. He imagines Billy telling him that he loves him - because Billy has never said that before, and Steve doesn’t want to let him go without hearing those words. Because Max says she knows he does, but that Billy won’t say it because he’s scared- because the things that he loves tend to go away, but Steve has already vowed to prove him wrong. He wants Billy to know what love really feels like. He wants Billy to live long enough to feel it for real. 

“I love you,” Steve whispers, barely audible. “I wanted you to say it first, but fuck it, I love you, Hargrove.” He watches Billy, and then feels stupid for thinking such a confession would pull him out of his drug induced haze. He kisses Billy’s temple. He holds Billy’s hand, and he waits. 


	11. divine intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original request/prompt: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186947452410/please-continue-little-devotional-i-need-that  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> linked to chapter 10: little devotional.

Billy is not alone. There is a second shadow curled up on the thin mattress beside him. Steve shuts the door and flicks on the light to find Max with both arms wrapped around her brother’s, her head resting against his shoulder, her little body hovering protectively over his. Her grip on him is tight even as she sleeps, her brow furrowed and her mouth turned down in a frown. She reminds Steve of Billy - defensive and ready for a fight. 

Billy himself looks the same - asleep, with tubes and wires snaking every which way, machines pumping medicine into him and measuring out his vital signs. For a moment, the heart monitor beeps a little faster, and Steve sees a crease in Billy’s brow. Max reacts - her arms curl around his tighter, and she moves her head toward Billy’s chest. 

It only lasts a moment, and then they both relax.

Steve takes up his usual seat at Billy’s beside. He sits there for a minute, or maybe two, taking in the scene before him. He sighs, and then he reaches to shake Max’s shoulder. She startles awake, and as she does her hold on Billy’s tightens once again. Her eyes go wide, then soften when they find Steve’s.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Max mumbles. 

“What’s going on?” Steve asks. Max looks at Billy, her chin against his shoulder, looking younger and more vulnerable than Steve as ever seen her. She is still looking at Billy when she speaks, watching him, observing him, like she’s waiting for something to happen.

“He’s off the sedative,” she says. 

“Did the doctor-” Steve stars, but Max shakes her head.

“Step-dad,” she says. She is blinking when she looks at Steve again, blinking away tears that she doesn’t want him to see, tears that she won’t let fall. She hasn’t let go of Billy’s arm. She hasn’t moved from his side. 

“When?” Steve asks.

“Today,” she says. “This afternoon. They said it’ll take a while for him to wake up.” She chews on her bottom lip, and the she adds, “ _If_ he wakes up.” 

“Do they think-…?” Steve starts again, and this time he lets himself trail off, because the thought of finish such a question - the thought of getting an answer - terrifies him. 

“I don’t know,” Max says. “But Neil was on the phone before. Lawyers, I think. Something about wrongful death.” 

Those words make Steve’s blood boil. He looks at Billy if only to reassure himself that Billy is still here, is still breathing, is still alive. He watches the slight flutter of his closed eyelids and listens to the whistle of his breath. He looks at the IV pole, at the steady drip of fluids pumped into his veins. He looks at the heart monitor, at the little peaks and valleys of Billy’s survival mapped in reds and greens. 

“He’s burying him,” Max says suddenly, and Steve almost jumps at the words. 

“He’s not dead,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, but-” Max starts, and Steve shakes his head.

“No,” Steve says. The fierceness of that single syllable shocks them both. Max stares at him, and Steve stares at Billy. Eventually, he lets on hand fall gently over Billy’s, always mindful of the IV lines threaded into his veins, and he sighs. “You know, a couple of weeks ago, I told him that it was okay if he was tired. I told him that could let go if he wanted to.”

“Steve-” Max starts, but another shake of Steve’s head stops her again.

“He is tired,” Steve says. “But he’s not going to give up. You know that, right? That’s not Billy. If it’s his dad driving this, he’ll stay alive just to spite him,” At this, Max breathes a laugh, and Steve does, too. There are they are, crowded around a tiny hospital bed, two twin pillars holding strong to the beam that unites them, smiling and laughing. Steve squeezes Billy’s hand lightly, and Max nestles herself against Billy’s side. Before long, they’ve stopped laughing, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. “So, do your parents know you’re here?” Steve asks after a while. 

“I told them I’m sleeping at El’s,” Max says.

“I can drop you off there,” Steve offers. “On my way back.”

Max shrugs her shoulders and again she looks at Billy instead of Steve.

“I don’t want to leave him,” she says. Steve opens his mouth, ready to say _I’ll stay with him_ , but he knows that this isn’t want Max wants. He knows it’s not just that she doesn’t want Billy to wake up alone. It’s that she wants to be there, herself, to see him through whatever comes next. 

He says nothing. Instead, he smiles a sad sort of smile. He leans back in his chair. He holds onto Billy’s hand and watches Max fall asleep against his shoulder once more. They pass the night together, two sentinels on guard, and when the first few rays of sunlight break through the window they sneak out together as the nurses make their rounds. 

For the next week, Steve’s visits are joined by Max. Sometimes she is in the bed with Billy, holding onto him as if letting go means losing him. Sometimes she sits on the windowsill, or takes up an uncomfortable vinyl chair. Some nights they talk- about Billy, about his father, about what the doctors are saying. Others, they keep silent watch over Billy. 

Steve isn’t there when Billy wakes up. He doesn’t see it happen- doesn’t see the soft flutter of his lashes or hear his groggy, rasping voice. But when he comes that night, when he sneaks into the room and sees Max cross-legged at the foot Billy’s bed, sorting through books from a backpack Steve recognizes from Billy’s room at home, he knows. 

“He’s okay?” Steve asks.

“He will be,” Max says, “I think. He doesn’t stay awake for long, and he’s hurting a lot.”

“But he woke up?” Steve asks.

“He’s pretty out of it,” Max says. “Doesn’t remember much.”

“Might be for the best,” Steve says. Despite his serious tone, he can’t stop smiling. He’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. He’s too excited to sit down, and instead he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at the books over Max’s shoulder. They’re all from Billy’s minuscule collection, some from school and others stolen from the public library in California. 

“He asked for you,” Max says. This catches Steve off guard. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and Max huffs a small laugh. “I mean, sort of. He said your name. I told Neil you were a friend- that he knew you from the mall.”

“Thanks for covering,” Steve says, finally falling into usual seat.

“Neil didn’t care anyway,” Max shrugs. “He’s talking to the lawyers again.”

“Guess he has to find a new angle,” Steve says. Max uncrosses her legs. She drops Billy’s books back into his bad and hops off the bed. 

“Hard to sue for the wrongful death of someone who’s still alive,” she says, and she’s smiling as wide as Steve is, and there is a smugness in her eyes that Steve almost admires. She spares one look at Billy, then declares that she’s going to the vending machine. “I’ll grab you a soda,” she offers, and the she tells Steve not to expect much from Billy. “He’s tired,” she says. “But I think it’s a different kind of tired now. Like, a normal kind of tired.”

“I’ll take that,” Steve says, and he means it. When Max disappears, sneaking silently down the hall, Steve moves his chair closer to Billy’s side. He holds Billy’s hand just a bit more firmly that he has been, and his heart jumps when he feels Billy’s thumb brush against his palm. “Hey,” he whispers close to Billy’s ear, and he watches Billy’s closed eyes as he speaks. “Thanks for sticking it out, Hargrove,” he says. “Shit would get real boring without you.” 


	12. past life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186970720115/you-know-im-gonna-ask-for-that-sweet-sweet  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

“What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“California.” Billy lifts his head, the cigarette between his lips bobbing as he smiles. He has taken up residence on a lounge chair beside Steve’s swimming pool. Steve is in the water, hanging off the edge, head tilted as he squints up at Billy. 

“You’ve really never left Hawkins, have you?” Billy asks. He sits up, straddling the chair as he leans forward. He pinches his cigarette between his fingers and breathes a puff of smoke into the humid air. 

“What makes you say that?” asks Steve.

“The way you say it,” Billy says. He waves his hand for emphasis and mimics, “ _California_.”

“Come on,” Steve says, half-defensive as Billy laughs and puffs his cigarette.

“No,” Billy says. “It’s cute.”

“I just wanna know,” Steve says. He hauls himself out of the pool, splashing water across the stone pool-deck and dripping it the distance between the water and Billy’s chair. He takes a folded towel from a little square table and uses it to dry his face. 

“What do you want to know?” Billy asks. Steve sits on the edge of his chair and runs his hands through his hair. 

“Uh, I dunno,” he says. “What’d you do? Where’d you live?”

“We lived near the beach,” Billy says. “Tiny little town. Not much there.”

“Like Hawkins,” Steve says, and Billy scoffs.

“You can’t surf in Hawkins,” he says.

“You surf?”

“Used to.”

“What else did you do?”

“I don’t know,” Billy says. “Beach shit.”

“What’s beach shit?” Steve asks.

“Bonfires. Parties. That kind of shit. We’d camp out on the sand sometimes.”

“Who’s we?”

“What?”

“You said we,” Steve says. “You and your friends?”

“Uh, yeah,” Billy says. “Sometimes. My mom, too, before…” He trails off. He drags on his cigarette and leans against the back of the chair. He stares up at the sky and for a moment Steve thinks about changing the subject, about giving Billy and escape, but then Billy clears his throat. “Sometimes Max, too.”

“I cannot picture the two of you hanging out.”

“Me and Max?” Billy asks, and Steve says yes. Billy shrugs. “That house could get loud. My dad- Susan’s quiet, but Max’s dad was still hanging around, and my mom…” Again, he trails off, and he sighs a big puff of smoke from his lungs. “Sometimes you gotta get out.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I get that.” They are both quiet then, Billy resting against the chair, one arm pillowed behind his head, blowing smoke rings toward the sun and Steve at the foot of that same chair, leaning back on his hands, watching Billy. “Do you miss it?” he asks eventually. For a moment he doesn’t think that Billy’s heard him, because Billy makes no move to answer. He flicks his spent cigarette to the ground and expels one last cloud of gray smoke. He brings his now-free hand to join the other behind his head and he lifts his chin toward the purple sky. He wears sunglasses that shield his eyes, and he doesn’t take them off as evening darkens the sky. 

“I miss it a lot,” Billy finally says. Steve’s eyes soften, and he rests on hand on Billy’s leg. Billy doesn’t move, but he doesn’t try to shake Steve off, either, like he sometimes does. 

“We should go there some day,” Steve says. “You can show me around.”

At first, Billy says nothing, but the corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile that makes Steve smile, too. “Yeah,” Billy sighs. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”


	13. that's gonna leave a scar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186974068725/can-you-do-some-harringrove-for-48-thanks  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

The phone rings. Steve groans and squeezes his eyes shut, even throws a pillow over his head for dramatic effect. It is Sunday morning and the sun’s barely up and the telephone is ringing off the hook. It quiets down, and Steve sighs. He lets the pillow fall away and relaxes. He is just about asleep when the ringing starts again, incessant and relentless. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Steve whines. He rolls onto his back and throws the covers off. He stares up at the ceiling, counting the rings. He is alone in the house. His parents have decided to take a weekend to _work on their marriage_ (aka: have the same fights at a beach resort). There is no one else to hear the endless ringing; no one else to stop it. 

It ends again, and Steve closes his eyes, but seconds later it picks back up.

“Fine,” Steve says to the empty room. “Fine, fine, fine.” 

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stomps to his feet. Steve hustles down the stairs, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he grabs the phone from its cradle.

“Robin, if this is about-”

“Steve?” The voice that says his name is not Robin’s. Steve stills. His heart skips a beat.

“Max?” he says. “What the hell is going on?”

“Is Billy with you?”

“What?” Steve asks. “What? No. No, he’s not here.”

“Shit,” Max swears, and Steve thinks he feels his heart jump into his throat.

“Max?” he asks. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong with Billy?”

“It’s just-” she starts, and then she says, “He’s-”, and then, “I don’t know.”

“What happened?” Steve asks. “He was fine when I dropped him off. He was fine, right?”

“I didn’t see him,” Max says. “My step-dad…” She trails off, and Steve feels sick.

“Max,” he says. “Is Billy hurt?” There is a beat of silence, and all Steve hears is Max’s breathing on the other end of the line. When she still doesn’t answer, Steve says, “Max?”

“I think it’s bad,” she says.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. 

“I’m fine,” Max says. “I’m with El. But-”

“I’m gonna find him,” Steve says. “Okay? I’m gonna find him.”

He hangs up, and with his heart hammering so heart in his chest he thinks it might fall out he takes the stairs two at a time. He throws on yesterday’s clothes, tugs his sneakers on unlaced, grabs the radio he bought on Dustin’s instance (”Evil. Russians. You want to be left alone without communication?”). He bounds to the front door, swings it open and runs to the car- then runs back inside when he realizes he forgot he keys in his haste. 

As he peels out of his driveway, Steve switches on the walkie. “Max?” he says. “Are you there? Am I on the right station?”

“We can hear you,” Max says. “El’s trying to find him.”

Ever since Starcourt, El’s powers haven’t been the same. She describes it as glimmers- she can see a little bit, but there’s no words, nothing tangible, and it doesn’t stay long enough for her to gather details. 

“Anything?” Steve asks. He’s already rounding the corner, already scouting their usual haunts: he’ll hit the pool, swing around the back of the record store, perhaps check some of Billy’s more private hide-outs. 

“It’s…It’s really bad, Steve. It’s really, really bad.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Steve says, as much for himself as for Max. She promises to tell him if El sees anything else, and he sets on his mission to find Billy. He doesn’t find him at the corner store or the diner, he isn’t hanging around the school, he’s not by the lake or the quarry. He drove by the Hargrove house to see if Billy might have gone home, but his Camaro is absent from its usual spot. He even stops at payphone to call around. He tries Tommy and Carol, Heather, even Nancy and Jonathan and Robin, but no one has seen Billy since he left Carol’s party last night. Steve thinks he’s checked every nook and cranny of Hawkins, but there’s one stone still left unturned. 

Hawkins Mercy Hospital sits just on the edge of the town. It’s a small facility for a small town, and as Steve takes the winding one-lane roads toward the emergency department, he holds his breath. He scans the speckled parking lot until he sees it: a blue Chevy with California plates, parked at the far corner underneath a tree, as if this is enough to hide it. Steve parks beside it and he shoves the walkie in his jacket pocket, where it hangs heavy and pokes out of the unclosed zipper. 

The waiting room is dotted with parents and their children, all scraped-knees and broken arms. One ambulance pulls up outside and demands all the nurses’ attention. With their focus diverted, and everyone else too busy with their own problems to notice him, Steve ducks into the emergency room. 

The hall is lined with gurneys and green curtains. Steve slows his pace and peeks behind each: an elderly woman with an oxygen mask, a kid with his arm in a splint. Steve stops when he comes to one closed curtain, and he hesitates outside.

“Billy?” he guesses. There is no answer, so he tries again. “Billy, is that you?”

“What are you doing here?”

The words are slurred, the voice weighted, and Steve is not prepared for the sight that greets him when he pulls back the curtain. 

Billy flinches. He ducks his head, shrinks back, tries to make himself smaller. He’s wearing the same black jeans he wore last night, thought the button is undone. His shirt is balled up on a plastic chair at the bedside, leaving his bare-chested and exposed. There are bruises all over him, purple and black, all of them deep and fresh, a storm of them circled around his ribs so heavily Steve wonders if the color will ever go away. His left eye is swollen, his lips puffy and split, and there is gauze stuffed into his nose. There are stitches threaded through his brow, right beside the scar he claimed he’d gotten from a fight at school. He cradles his right arm with his left, and when Steve looks down he sees that Billy’s wrist is splinted. There is a pink basin sitting on the bed beside him, and an oxygen mask lies unused beside it. 

Steve’s heart sinks. 

“Billy,” he says, but Billy won’t raise his head. His hair hangs in front of his face, shielding it. Steve sweeps the curtain closed and takes a step closer, aching all the more when Billy curls away from him. His shoulders go up, and he leans away as if he can create more space between them. Steve stops in his tracks. “What happened?”

“How’d you find me?” Billy rasps. 

“Max called,” Steve says. Billy scoffs. “She was worried.”

“M’fine,” Billy mumbles.

“Like hell,” says Steve, and this gets Billy’s attention. He looks at Steve from the corner of his eye. Steve sighs. He takes the last few steps toward the gurney and he sits down beside Billy. Billy does not move away, but he also doesn’t move toward Steve, and this hurts Steve just as much. He wants to touch Billy, but he is afraid - afraid to hurt him, or to scare him, or to have him throw Steve out. “Billy,” he says, and Billy looks at him through a veil of unkempt hair. “You gotta talk to me.”

“No I don’t,” Billy says.

“You can’t tell me this was a fight,” Steve says.

“You know what it is,” Billy says.

“It’s never been this bad,” Steve says.

“Now it is,” Billy says matter-of-factly. His icy tone cuts Steve to his core. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” Steve asks. “Why didn’t you come over? I could’ve driven you here, I could’ve-”

“I can take care of myself,” Billy says harshly. Steve falters, and then he sighs.

“No shit,” he says. “But you don’t have to.”

Billy grunts, and it turns into a cough, and the cough doesn’t stop. He turns away from Steve, and Steve inches closer to him. He puts a hand gently on Billy’s back and rubs circles into the unbruised skin he finds there. Billy’s shoulder shudder and he flinches when Steve reaches across him for the oxygen mask. When Billy realizes what he’s doing, he tries to push Steve away, but Steve won’t let him.

“Come on,” he says. “It’ll help.”

Billy fights until the coughing takes over again and then he lets Steve place the mask over his nose and mouth. Steve holds it there until the coughing stops, and while Billy is focused on regaining his breath, Steve pulls the walkie from his pocket. 

“Max?” he says. “I found him.”

“Is he okay?” Max asks. “Where are you?”

“He’ll be okay,” Steve asks, his eyes on Billy as Billy mumbles something that fogs up the plastic oxygen mask. “Hey,” Steve says to him. “Just relax, okay? Just breath.”

Billy tugs the mask down far enough to say, “Fuck off.” 

“Not on your life,” Steve says, and he puts the mask back in place. Billy lets him, and while his focus returns to his breath, Steve returns to the walkie. “You stay put, okay?”

“Don’t bring him home,” Max says. 

“Don’t worry,” Steve says. His hand moves from Billy’s back to his head. He combs his fingers through Billy’s hair and lets Billy lean his weight against him. “I’ve got him. He’ll be okay.”


	14. hold me tight or don't.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/186996722120/10-for-harringrove-xx  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve wakes to the sound of running water. He groans when he rolls over and grabs the alarm clock perched on his nightstand. His hangover makes all the numbers look the same, but he can tell by the blurry little ticking hands that is far too early to be awake. He shoves his face into his pillow with a heavy sigh and squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can. 

He stretches his arm out beside him, reaching for the warm empty spot where Billy had slept. He frowns at its vacancy, rolling towards it and stealing the pillow that Billy had borrowed last night. It smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Steve breathes it in and drifts off into a hazy kind of twilight, not quiet asleep but not quite awake, far enough removed that he is genuinely startled when Billy falls back into the bed. 

“Jesus,” Steve mumbles. Billy says nothing. He gathers up his half of the blankets, tugging hard enough that part of Steve’s half fall from Steve’s gap, and burrows beneath them. Steve tries to curl up to him, but Billy turns his back. Steve reaches an arm around Billy, but Billy squirms and shakes him off, and Steve settles for tucking his head near Billy’s shoulders. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, and Billy grunts. 

Hours later, Steve wakes up fully, but Billy is still fast asleep. 

He hasn’t moved an inch since the early morning. He lies on his side, his hair fallen over his face, lips parted and eyelids fluttering as he dreams. Steve inches out of bed as carefully as he can, wincing with each dip of the mattress, but Billy doesn’t seem to notice. His breath hitches once, and Steve stills, but Billy does not wake. 

Steve breathes a sigh of relief and slips silently out the room. 

As he makes his way upstairs, Steve tidies the remnants of the night before. He plucks Billy’s jacket off the railing, kicks two pairs of shoes into the hall closet, tosses spent beer cans into the trash. 

The phone rings once, and then twice, and Steve flinches and swears as he hurries to answer it before the third ring, eyes on the stairs and only half-listening to Robin as she says, “We still on for tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Billy’s sleeping.”

“What the hell?” Robin asks. “It’s past noon. Get his ass up!”

“It might be a while,” Steve says. “He’s pretty hungover. I think I heard him throwing up this morning.”

“Shit,” Robin says. “I didn’t think he got that busted up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says. “I barely saw him drink. I mean, we had some beers after, but-”

“Well shove some greasy carbs in him and get your asses moving,” Robin says. “I’m not hanging out with your children all by myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “Listen, just give me a few hours, okay?”

“I’m picking you up at three,” Robin says. “Be ready.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Okay. Yeah.”

When he hangs up the phone, and in the absence of Robin’s voice, Steve half-expects to hear movement upstairs: rustling sheets, or bare feet on the floor; creaking floorboards or the rush of the shower head. But there is nothing. The house is silent. 

“Hey, Billy?” Steve calls. He hauls himself back up the stairs and wanders toward his bedroom, where the door is still open a crack. Golden rays of sunlight spill out into the hall. “You up yet?”

Billy does not answer, because Billy has barely moved. Perhaps his arm has shifted, or he’s turned his head slightly to the left, but he is otherwise exactly as Steve had left him. 

“Hey,” Steve says, voice soft. “Come on, man. A couple of weak ass beers can’t take down the Hawkins High keg king, can they?”

He rounds the bed and kneels at Billy’s side. Billy is sleeping deeply, and Steve feels guilty for trying to wake him. He touches Billy’s shoulder and frowns; Billy’s skin is hot to the touch. Steve brushes this off, thinks it is from being wrapped up in the bedding, and he gentle nudges Billy. In response, Billy snorts, and his eyelids flutter. He blinks a few times, and his brow creases as he takes in the room in quick snapshots. They settle on Steve, looking weary and out-of-focus. 

“Hey,” Steve whispers, and Billy grunts. “We’re supposed to take the kids to the movies.” Billy hums, but offers no words. His eyes slip closed for a moment and Steve leans toward him, his fingers gently brush Billy’s hair out of his face. He stills when his fingertips graze Billy’s forehead. “Woah, shit,” he says. “You’re burning up.” 

“Get off me,” Billy mumbles. He tries to roll away from Steve, but he barely makes it onto his back before he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you sick?” Steve asks. 

“You’re loud,” Billy says.

“Were you sick last night?” Steve asks. “Is that why you weren’t drinking?”

“Go away,” Billy says. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He lifts himself onto the bed, hovering on the edge, and he gently pulls Billy’s hand away from his face. Billy keeps his eyes closed tight and he turns his head away when Steve tries to feel his forehead. “What can I do?”

“Leave me alone,” Billy mumbles. 

“Besides that,” Steve says. “What do you need?”

“I swear to God, Harrington,” Billy warns, but the threat doesn’t fall so heavy when his voice sounds so tired and weak and he’s flinching at the slightest bit of sunlight creeping between the blinds. Steve pushes Billy’s hair back, and Billy lets him. They sit like that for a time, Billy half-asleep and Steve playing with his hair, the minutes ticking along on the clock. 

“I think we have, like…Campbell’s or something,” Steve offers eventually.

“Not hungry,” Billy murmurs quietly. He looks weak and small, Steve might even say pathetic, and everything about it seems wrong. 

“You should eat something,” Steve insists.

“Steve,” Billy groans.

“Are you thirsty, then?” Steve asks. “Can I get you water?”

“Stop,” Billy says. His voice gets softer and softer with every word, and Steve thinks he’s drifting off again. He waits until Billy has fallen asleep to get up from the bed and ventures back into the house. He finds Tylenol and he fills a glass with water, he sets cans of soup on the counter for Billy to pick from later, he finds a thermometer that he knows Billy won’t let him use but he takes it with him on the off chance he might be able to sneak it under Billy’s tongue. When he goes back upstairs, Billy is no longer in bed. Steve leaves the Tylenol on the nightstand, but takes the water to the bathroom. The door is open a crack, but he still knocks.

“Billy?” he says. “You wanna let me in?”

“Fuck off,” Billy groans, his menace lost in a hacking cough that sends him heaving again. Steve winces, but waits outside. He listens to the flush of the toilet and the trickle of the tap. He hears Billy swear under his breath and he shuffles backwards when the door swings fully open. “The hell are you doing?” Billy asks. 

“I just,” Steve stammers, and then he sighs. “I want to help, okay? You look like shit.”

“Thank you,” Billy scoffs. 

“Just go to bed,” Steve says. 

“Mhm,” Billy hums. 

“Take the Tylenol,” Steve says. 

“Yes, mom,” Billy mocks. He shoves past Steve to get to the bedroom, and Steve trails after him. Billy isn’t exactly steady on his feet, but he uses the wall as a guide, and Steve stays close just in case this fails him.

“I’m serious,” Steve says. “You’re hot.”

“I know,” Billy says.

“I mean your temperature, asshole.”

“Sure,” Billy says. He sits down on the bed, and Steve stands over him, eyes crossed. Billy rolls his eyes and grabs the pill bottle from the mess on Steve’s night table. He pops off the red cap and shakes two pills into his palm. He tosses them in his mouth, holding up a hand when Steve offers the glass of water. He dry swallows the pills, which makes him cough, which makes him white-knuckle the mattress until he can catch his breath again. When he’s done, Steve is still holding out the water. “Screw off with that,” Billy says, swinging his legs back onto the mattress. 

“Drink it,” Steve says. Billy tries to ignore him, but Steve is insistent. Billy swipes the glass from him, water spilling the carpet when he does, and he downs in one gulp.

“Happy?” he asks.

“Thrilled,” Steve replies flatly. He sighs, and Billy rests his head against the wall behind him. Eventually, Steve sits beside him and rests a hand on Billy’s leg. “I’m gonna call Robin back. Cancel for today.”

“You should go,” Billy says. “I’ll go home, sleep this off.”

“Is your dad home?” Steve asks. Billy’s silence is an answer in itself. “You’re staying here. At least for tonight. Get some sleep.”

“You don’t have be there for that,” Billy tells him.

“Yeah, well, I want to be,” Steve insists. Billy stares at him for a long while, and then he sighs. 

“You want to be?” he repeats. 

“For you,” Steve says, and he squeezes Billy’s leg. “Yeah, Hargrove. I’m not going anywhere.”


	15. i and love and you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original request/prompt: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/187364126865/fluff-prompt-billy-survives-starcourt-and-steve  
> Fic requests open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

It was an impulse buy.

Steve had been in the waiting room, pacing back and forth and back and forth as double doors opened to doctors beelining toward waiting families. Joyce had sent Jonathan and Will home with Nancy and Mike, herself and El lingering to see the chief. Lucas and Erica had been picked up by their frantic parents rather quickly. Dustin stayed with Steve as long as he could, but soon enough his mother swooped in with a million questions and tearstained cheeks. Robin, for her part, had called her parents and told them that she was fine and that she was staying to support a friend. They had wanted her home, but she managed to buy a few hours time with the promise that she’d call with updates. In between check-ins, she made vending machine runs while Steve stared at the operating suite doors and Max attempting, for the fifteenth time, to reach her mother. 

When Susan and Neil Hargrove finally showed up, Neil fuming and ready to lay into the police still milling about the waiting room compiling statements and Susan fretting and fussing over Max, Steve secluded himself in the corner. 

“You okay?” Robin asked him, plopping down and tossing a bag of peanut M&Ms in his lap.

“I don’t know,” Steve mumbled. 

“Is that his gold star family?” Robin asked, jutting her chin toward the Hargroves. Neil was shouting at a young police officer while Susan tried to get him to back off and Max sat cross-legged in an uncomfortable plastic chair, watching the doors the way Steve had been and perking up at every doctor and nurse that walked by. 

“Yup,” Steve sighed. “They’re aces.”

“They look it,” Robin said. They both got quiet, and Steve fiddled with the bag of candy in his lap. Robin watched him for a few silent moments before she said, “You want to take a walk?”

One look back at Neil Hargrove filled Steve with the immediate need to run, and so he said yes, and they found themselves wandering toward the gift shop with all of its Indiana keychains and get well balloons. Steve had absently plucked the little teddy bear off a shelf as he walked, not fully realizing he was holding it until Robin pointed it out.

“You gonna give that your boyfriend, Casanova?”

“What?”

“The bear, dingus.”

“Oh.” Steve had shoved it back on the nearest shelf, feeling somehow embarrassed to be caught with it, but Robin scooped it right back out with a smile that looked some shade of sincere. It was a little brown bear with _Get Well Soon_ embroidered in white thread on its right foot. It wore the somber expression of all stuffed animals and its little paws touched over its chest. Robin pushed it into Steve’s hands.

“You should buy it,” she said. “He’ll like it.”

“You don’t know Billy.”

“Maybe not,” she shrugged, “but it’ll make him think of you.”

And so, on a whim and Robin’s encouragement, Steve paid for the little bear. 

The Hargroves were gone when Steve and Robin returned to the waiting room. The cops were, too, and so were all the government officials mixed among them. Steve and Robin parked themselves in the same two chairs and shared bags of vending machine candy until the Hargroves bustled past them, Max dropping a note written on a stolen Post-It note as they did. 

_ICU. Rm 185. Sedated. Stable._

“You don’t have to stay,” Steve told Robin, but she shook her head.

“You’re my ride,” she told him. “Take as long as you need.”

And so Steve snuck past the recovery rooms and the nurse’s station outside the Intensive Care Unit with the little bear in hand. Room one eighty-five was in the back corner of the unit, and Steve slipped inside as the nurses checked in on other patients. 

The first thing Steve noticed, after his eyes adjusted to the dark, was how small Billy looked. There were tubes and wires attached to him- there was a mask over his mouth and nose and wires stuck to his chest, IV lines snaked around his arm. The bed itself seemed to swallow him whole, blankets piled on top of him, cover up any inch that wasn’t already wrapped in bandages and gauze. The sight of him made Steve’s heart sink. 

“Shit,” he whispered. He stared at Billy for a long while, right up until he heard a nurse walking by the room and had to duck into the corner so that she wouldn’t see him. When he was sure he was safe, he crept to Billy’s bedside and sat down. He gingerly touched Billy’s hand, terrified that any contact might hurt him, and he blinked away the tears that he knew Billy would mock him for if he were awake. “I, uh…I got you something,” Steve said softly. He looked down at the bear still clutched in his free hand. “It’s stupid. I know you’ll make fun of it. But, I don’t know…A friend told me…It’s not important. I just wanted you to have something from me.”

Steve left the bear with Billy that night, and the next morning Max covered him by swearing that she had given the bear to Billy. It sat on the windowsill of Billy’s room in the ICU, and then later in the medical-surgical unit. It had caught Billy’s eye once he was moved, and Max told him that Steve had gotten it for him. He’d scoffed and called Steve a dork, and Max pretended not to see the soft blush that crept into her brother’s cheeks. When Billy was finally discharged, he made Max grab the bear for him. 

He’d never mentioned anything about it to Steve, and Steve had been too embarrassed to ask him about it. Max had told him that she explained everything to him, that Steve had visited him every night and that he wanted Billy to have the bear so that he’d think of him, but Billy never brought it up with Steve, so Steve left it alone, too. He left it alone and pretended not to see it tucked onto a shelf in Billy’s bedroom. It sat there among cassette tapes and empty cigarette boxes, never moved. 

Years later, as they are moving boxes into the apartment they could finally afford, Steve found the bear in a box with a framed photograph of Billy with his mother and a Metallica record that Max had once given him for his birthday. He’d nearly forgotten about the bear. He hadn’t seen it in years, not since Billy had healed enough to start venturing outside his house and they resumed their nighttime sneaking at the Harringtons’. He was sure that Billy had gotten rid of it, that it would be thrown away with the junk he purged while moving. 

Steve carried the little bear from the bedroom to the living room, where Billy was swearing at the coffee table he was trying- and failing -to build.

“You kept this?” Steve asked him, holding up the bear.

“Kept what?” Billy snipped, sounding annoyed. He looked up with furrowed brows, but his features softened when he saw the stuffed animal in Steve’s hands. He made a sound that was something like a sigh and something like a laugh and he shook his head. “No shit, I kept it,” he said.

“I thought you’d think it was…I don’t know, corny or something.”

“It is corny,” Billy said. He turned his attention back to the coffee table, the leg of which Steve was sure he’d snap if the screw didn’t go in right this time. “You’re corny,” Billy mumbled. “That’s _why_ I kept it.” 

“Yeah?” Steve asked. “Really?”

“You gonna make me say it?” Billy asked, still not looking at him. 

“Say what?” Steve said, genuinely dumbfounded. Billy glanced up at him from his spot on the floor.

“That I love you and your stupid bear, idiot.”

And maybe his words were a little harsh. Maybe Billy was a little rough around the edges. But he loved Steve, and he carried that stupid little _Get Well Soon_ teddy bear around for years because he loved Steve, and that is all that mattered.


	16. a permanent reminder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/187811727295/i-would-like-to-request-a-fic-i-would-love-to  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

The clock reads three fourteen. Steve stumbles through the dark hall, swearing under his breath when he trips over the curled corner of the runner on the floor. The bathroom door groans when he opens it and he slaps the wall too hard in his search the light switch. When he finds it, the bulbs burn so bright they hurt his eyes and, again, he swears. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Jesus!” Steve whirls around, heart in his throat, and swears for a third time when he sees Max standing in the doorway, swallowed up by one of Billy’s old t-shirts and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Don’t do that,” he says, a little louder than intended.

“What’s going on?” Max asks. Her brow furrows; she sees the open medicine cabinet, the little orange bottles all lined up like soldiers on the shelf. She looks to Billy’s bedroom, the door left open and the lights on low. She can just make out Billy’s shadow on the bed, curled into a ball with his head downturned. “Oh,” she says, and she frowns.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. Their parents are gone, at least for a few days, off to Indianapolis to meet with lawyers they can hardly afford. Susan had tried to convince Neil that one of them should stay, that Billy couldn’t be left alone, and Neil declared him fit enough to look out for himself for a couple of days. He’d offered twisted logic: that the trip was _for_ Billy, to make the people who’d done this to him pay, to help them afford the best care. Max had sworn up and down that she could handle things, that she’d make sure Billy was taking his pills and changing his dressings - she was relentless right up until her mother closed the door and Neil’s old, battered Ford sputtered away from the driveway, because she knew that it would Billy time to be with Steve.

She steps in front of Steve and rises onto her tip-toes. She spins one bottle, then another, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she reads the long, unintelligible words on the black-and-white labels. She pulls a bottle out and hands it to Steve.

“This is what they gave him at the hospital,” she says. “It should knock him out.”

“I don’t want to knock him out,” Steve says.

“I know,” Max shrugs. “But that’s the only thing that works.”

“Does it really work?” Steve asks. “Or does it just shut him up for a while?”

“He’s gotta sleep,” Max says. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “Yeah, I guess. So do you. Get to it.” 

“You’re okay?”

“I’ve got it.”

Steve waits until her bedroom door closes to go back into the hall. Billy, when Steve returns, is in the same place he left him: a ball on the bed, arms around his middle, his head pressed against his pillow and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His breath comes out ragged through clenched teeth and he startles when Steve touches his shoulder. 

“It’s just me,” Steve whispers. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t-” Billy starts, then hisses as he curls further into himself. When Steve tries to rub his back, tries to comfort him, Billy’s shoulders shudder. “ _Don’t fucking touch me_.” His words are curt, short, strained. Steve’s heart sinks, but he is quick to obey, quick to snap his hand back. He shakes a round, white pill into his palm and holds it out to Billy. Billy does not move, or speak, or even open his eyes.

“Take this,” Steve says. Billy’s eyes open to slits. He looks at Steve’s offering, then closes them again. “Billy,” Steve says. “Come on.” 

“Fuck off,” Billy says. Steve repeats the same mantra that’s been cycling through his head since he first saw Billy: _He’s in pain, it’s not his fault. He’s in pain, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean it. He’s in pain. It’s not his fault_. 

“It’s gonna help,” Steve says. 

“I said _fuck off_ ,” Billy hisses. Steve sighs, and he sets the pill and its bottle on the nightstand. He is careful as he sits down on the bed, trying not to jostle Billy, but even the slightest dip in the mattress as his cursing. On instinct and without thinking, he touches Billy’s arm. “Don’t,” Billy growls, and Steve snaps away as if he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Billy says nothing, and Steve holds his hands between his knees to stop himself from touching him again. It’s not as if this is a surprise: he’d snuck visits to the hospital, and Max had caught him up. Billy is held together by the hundreds of stitches threaded through his skin. His wounds are deep, and he is covered in bruises. He is on antibiotics that make him more nauseous than the pain does. Any little movement sends ripples through him; every touch stings. All Steve wants to do is gather him up, to hold him, to make it better, but he can’t. “What can I do?” Steve asks for what feels like the thousandth time. 

“Nothing,” Billy says, and it hurts because it feels true. He can force pills into him, he can knock him out and let him sleep through the pain (or let him sink into sleep with the pain still lingering, but let himself believe its not there because he can’t hear Billy crying, because the fear he can’t quite shake is that the pain never _really_ leaves, not even when Billy is asleep). But is that really doing anything? What use is Steve when Billy is in such agony? 

“There’s got to be something,” Steve says.

“Shut up,” Billy says. _He’s in pain, it’s not his fault. He’s in pain, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean it. He’s in pain. It’s not his fault._ Steve looks to the nightstand; to the untouched water, the unswallowed pill, the gauze in its blue paper packaging. There is saline in clear plastic bottles, a sheet of wound care instructions folded up with pink discharge papers, and a piece of notebook paper with a doctor’s phone number on it. The posters on the wall and the scattered cassette cases are the only things that still make the room feel like Billy’s and not just an extension of his hospital room. 

As gently as he can, Steve brushes Billy’s hair from his face. Billy winces, he flinches, but he doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t curse at Steve. Encouraged, Steve tucks a few stray strands behind Billy’s ear. 

“Where does it hurt?” Steve asks. 

“All over,” Billy says. His eyes are still closed, though not as tightly now. He swallows thickly and he presses his head deeper into the pillow. Steve continues to brush his hair back, and Billy fails to stop him. It’s the only touch he’s been able to tolerate; or maybe he’s just too tired, or in too much pain, to fight Steve. 

“You want the medicine yet?”

“No,” Billy mumbles. “Nauseous.” 

“You don’t want to try? Max said it helps you sleep.”

“No,” Billy says again. In the soft yellow light of his bedroom lamp, his wounds look ghastly. He isn’t able to tolerate a shirt over them yet; he pulled off his gown in the hospital, the fabric pulling too hard at the stitches and feeling too scratchy against all those snaking lines. His skin is angry and red, though not as swollen as it once was. 

“You’re sure I can’t do anything?”

“Steve,” Billy says, voice low but not quite threatening - a warning that falls short. 

“Right,” Steve says. “I’ll shut up.”

And he does, and Billy is quiet, too. The click ticks the minutes away; three thirty-two, three thirty-three, three thirty-four. Steve knows that Billy is not sleeping because his breath is too sharp, his muscles too taut, but he is more relaxed than before. 

It is three forty-nine when Billy says something, but his voice is so low and muffled by his pillow that Steve doesn’t think he’s heard him. It sounds like a whine or a whimper, like a small cry of pain, and it puts Steve on high alert. 

“Hey,” he says, and his hands hover over Billy’s shoulders, just barely touching him, steering clear, afraid to hurt him. “Hey, are you okay?”

“M’sorry,” Billy mumbles. 

“What?”

“M’ _sorry_ ,” Billy repeats, though the angry growl beneath it wrings out any sincerity that might have fueled his words. _He’s in pain. He’s in pain. He’s in pain_. Steve sighs. He stops himself from lighting a hand on Billy’s shoulder and instead softly touches Billy’s hair. 

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers. “It’s not your fault.”


	17. holy water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/187832468055/may-i-request-a-fic-harringrove-with-an  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

It starts with a noise- something between a whimper and a groan. It is quiet at first, but then it grows, and Steve, grumbling, blinks blearily awake to find Billy twisted among the sheets, his breath quick, his hair plastered to his face by a soft sheen of sweat. His mouth is open and that strange, strangled sound fights its way out. A nightmare, Steve thinks; Billy hasn’t had one in months, but Steve is no stranger to his terror. His annoyance thaws. 

“Hey,” he says, voice strained with clinging sleep. “Billy.” Billy’s only response is a moan. Steve reaches for him, but Billy evades his grasp by rolling over, back rounding as he curls away. “Billy,” Steve says again, and this time he grasps Billy’s shoulder and- “Holy shit.”

This is no mere nightmare. Steve bolts upright as he starts to understand: it’s a fever dream.

“Billy?” Steve leans over him. He puts a hand to Billy’s forehead and hisses at the touch. Billy is boiling hot all over; his face, his arms, even his back as Steve leans against it. Steve reaches across Billy to flick on the light and when he does he sees that Billy’s shirt is two shades darker than it was when they went to bed, now soaked through with sweat. 

Billy squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden assault of light. He groans, louder this time. Steve combs his hair away from Billy’s face. Billy’s breath hitches. He thrusts his elbow weakly against Steve’s chest, almost whining with the effort, and Steve grabs his arm. 

“ _Off_ ,” Billy mumbles. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Hey, hey, hey.”

Billy doesn’t quite wake up- not all at once. He fights against Steve, and Steve doesn’t let him go, and he mutters words that are unintelligible and disconnected until they melt into a long, pathetic kind of sigh. He falls onto his back, Steve guiding him, and when he opens his eyes they are glossy and red. He looks startled, maybe even scared, and he shrinks away from Steve like a child from the dark. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

Billy says nothing, but recognition flickers- ever briefly -across his face. He is not trusting, not quite; he is still somewhere inside a dream Steve can’t yet understand. 

“Shit, you’re really out of it, aren’t you?”

“Wh-” Billy starts, but he never gets the whole word out. Steve presses his hand against Billy’s forehead again and thinks his palm might burn right through. 

“Stay here,” Steve tells him. “Don’t move.” 

Billy obeys, though whether he means to is another question entirely. Steve fishes his mother’s first aid kit from beneath the bathroom sink. He takes out a thermometer, shakes out a few Tylenol, fills a glass with water. He sets these things on the lip of the sink and then he turns to the tub, running the faucet as cold as he can get it. He lets it run, the tub slowly filling, and returns to find Billy with the blankets, still tangled, drawn up to his shoulders.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Uh-uh. C’mon. You gotta cool off.” Billy startles when Steve pulls the blankets away and the look on his face makes Steve chest ache. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re burning up, man.”

He can tell that Billy doesn’t trust him- not really, not truly -and it deepens the ache in his chest. Steve sighs and he squeezes Billy shoulder, hoping that Billy might find comfort in the gesture. 

“It’s okay,” Steve tells him. “Okay? We just have to cool you down. Can you stand?”

Billy does try, but just sitting upright seems a challenge. He sways and when he tries to get to his feet he can’t seem to keep them beneath him. Steve catches him, and he drapes Billy’s arm across his shoulders. 

“I got you,” he promises. Billy lets himself be guided down the hall. He deposits Billy onto the toilet and he reaches for the hem of his shirt. Billy tries to curl away, but Steve gently shushes him again. “You gotta get out of this, okay?” Steve says. “It’s drenched.” 

Billy weakly fights him, but Steve manages to peel Billy’s shirt off him. When he does, Billy curls in toward his middle, hiding the criss-crossed map of scars carved across his middle, dragged down his sides, thick and raised over his hips and beneath his ribs. His desperation to hide them makes undressing him a near-insurmountable task. He’s shivering, too. He looks pathetic. Small, and scared, and so unlike himself that Steve almost feels guilty bearing witness. He cups Billy’s cheek in his hand.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Can you look at me?” Billy does. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?” Steve asks, and Billy doesn’t seem to know how to answer. He says nothing. He only blinks, eyes flitting down to Steve’s mouth and then down to the floor and then back up to Steve’s eyes. “I wouldn’t,” Steve says. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, and when Billy drops his gaze again Steve gently lifts Billy’s chin and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I love you,” Steve tells him. Billy blinks slowly, and when Steve asks if he understands Billy nods his head. “Okay,” Steve says, satisfied. “Come on. I’m gonna try to make this quick, okay?”

He offers his hands, and Billy shakily takes them. He lets himself be drawn into the bath, though when his skin hits the water he hisses, rocketing forward and falling against Steve’s chest.

“I know,” Steve says. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. You gotta get in.”

“I don’t-” Billy starts, but the thought is never finished. He is tense and wracked with shivers and he strains against Steve hands as Steve lowers him into the tub, apologizing all the way. Billy swears, though his voice is not as angry as Steve is accustomed to. It is small and weak and heartbreaking and he clings to Steve’s arms as the water washes over his legs, his hips, swallows up his middle. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve keeps telling him. “I know. You can curse me out.”

“Good,” Billy groans, the first clear word he’s spoken, though it is said through chattering teeth. Steve holds him, lets Billy rest his head against his shoulder. 

“That’s it,” Steve says. “Just for a few minutes, okay?”  
  
“Steve,” Billy whines, and Steve’s heart jumps at the sound of his name. Billy buries his head in the crook of Steve’s neck and Steve lets him. He sits on the edge of the bathtub so that he can hold Billy tighter- hold him closer. He rubs his back and buries his fingers in Billy’s hair. He shushes him, rocks him, feels him relax as much as one can in a bath of ice-cold water.

“You’re okay,” Steve tells him, over and over again. The water laps over Billy’s skin and Steve frees one hand to cup some and pour it over Billy’s back and across his broad shoulders. Billy’s breath hitches with each pass of the water, but he doesn’t fight, doesn’t push Steve away, doesn’t try to escape, and again Steve tells him, “You’re okay.” 

When Steve decides his time is up, Billy lets himself be lifted from the tub. Steve dries him, dresses him in borrowed clothes that don’t fit quite right, gets him to take the Tylenol he’d left on the bathroom sink. When he takes Billy’s temperature it reads as a fever, but his skin doesn’t feel quite as fiery hot and he’s more coherent than he’d been before. 

And, where he’d been fearful before, now he clings to Steve. Even as Steve gets him back into bed, Billy won’t let him go far. He hangs onto to Steve’s arm, so Steve climbs in beside him. He wraps his arms around Billy and Billy burrows into him. 

“You feel any better?” Steve asks him. 

“Dunno,” Billy mumbles. 

“You’ll tell me if you feel worse?” Steve asks. Billy says nothing, but Steve thinks he feels Billy nod against his chest. He squeezes him closer and kisses his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and again Billy says nothing, but he does press himself firmly against Steve, and perhaps that is answer enough. 

Billy won’t remember this by morning. He will wake up in Steve’s arms, feeling sick and exhausted and awful, but his fever will break. And Steve will hover, of course, because he fears another bad dream, another sweat-soaked tee shirt. He’ll dote on Billy, and Billy will tell him not to, will complain that he’s too motherly, will even tease him for it, and Steve will be grateful; grateful that Billy is okay, grateful that Billy trusts him, grateful that Billy will still curl up in his arms when night falls again, less sick but still seeking safety, seeking comfort, and trusting Steve to give it.


	18. one way conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/187935360655/hiiiii-ummm-for-the-sick-prompt-person-a  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

“Hey.” Steve waves his hand in Robin’s general direction, though with his back to her his aim is a bit off and he winds up the magazine that she is trying, in vain, to read. “Hey,” Steve says again. He is sitting up right in a lounge chair and straining to see the lifeguard stand. “Does Billy look… _off_ to you?”

“I don’t know,” Robin says, annoyed. She slaps her magazine closed over her legs and looks over the edge of her sunglasses at Steve. “I don’t look at him nearly as much as you do.”

“I don’t mean-” Steve starts, and then he sighs. “Look at him. He looks like-”

“-the sun’s in his eyes and he's been screaming a bunch of bratty kids for an hour?”

“I’m serious,” Steve says.

“If you think something’s wrong, why don’t you, oh, I don’t know…” Robin makes a big show of thinking: she taps her chin, hums loud and long, furrows her brow. Then, her eyes go wide as she tears her off sunglasses and leans in toward Steve. “ _Ask_ him.” She flops back against the chair. “Isn’t that why we’re here?” she asks. “Because you two honeymooners go mad when you spend a few hours apart?” 

“Shut up,” Steve groans. 

“He’s coming down,” Robin says. “Swoop in before those PTA cougars spot him.”

“Very funny,” Steve says. 

“I think so, too.” Robin snaps her magazine open. “Go talk to your man, dingus.” 

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but Robin has returned to reading. Again, Steve sighs. He watches Billy cross the pool deck, watches the small band of suburban moms watch him go. He tries to figure out if Billy’s back looks more tense than unusual, or if his gait seems off. When Billy disappears into the dark locker room, Steve rises. 

“Billy?” he calls when he makes it to the locker room. It is dark inside, and quiet save for the spray from a shower head around the corner. Steve follows the sound calling, “Billy? That you?” The hall is long and empty. Billy’s shadow falls across the floor from one of the concrete shower stalls at the far end of the room. Steve approaches slowly, and he nears the stall he finds Billy standing with his back to the room and his hands braced against the wall. He is breathing heavily, his head down, the water flowing over his hair and down the back of his neck. “Hey,” Steve says.

Billy startles. He whips around and stumbles when he does. Steve tries to catch him, but Billy scrambles backwards. His back hits the shower wall and he huffs out a sigh. He shakes his head, combs his hair from his face, blinks a few times and when his eyes lands on Steve he rolls back his shoulders and straightens his spine. 

“What are you doing?” Billy asks, an edge to his voice. “I thought-”

“You sounded weird on the phone,” Steve admits. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Billy makes a sort of humming, sort of grunting sound at the back of his throat, but says nothing. He hands his head. His posture sags. When Steve touches his arm, he tenses. 

“You okay?” Steve asks. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Billy asks gruffly. He shrugs Steve’s hand off his shoulder and pushes off the wall. He shuts off the water, grabs a towel from a metal hook on the wall and uses it to dry his face. He shoves past Steve and starts down the hall, and Steve, confused, follows after him. 

“You just seem-” he starts, and then says, “I mean-”, and then, “you looked like-”

“Spit it out, Harrington,” says Billy. He opens his locker with one hand; tosses his towel into a glorified laundry basket in the corner of the room; roots in his duffel bag until he finds a shirt. He does this all with his back to Steve, only turning around once he’s gotten his shirt over his head. He hesitates a moment, though, and he leans back against the bank of lockers with eyes to the floor. He seems to be collecting himself, or catching his breath, and Steve’s brow creases his concern.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for Billy once again. Billy jerks away. “Would you stop?” Steve says a bit more aggressively then he’d planned. His tone doesn’t quiet go over well with Billy, who tries to smack him away when Steve advances. Billy’s back hits the lockers again, and this time Steve gets a grip on his arm to stead him. “Just take it easy, okay?” Steve says. “You don’t look good.”

“Asshole,” Billy grumbles.

“Look at me,” Steve tells him. Billy doesn’t so Steve ducks down to see his face. His skin is flushed and red, and it is warm to the touch when Steve touches Billy’s cheek. 

“Get off,” Billy says. He swats at Steve’s hand but fails to shoo him away. 

“You feel feverish,” Steve says.

“I sit in the sun for a living,” Billy sighs. He lifts his head and, with an exasperated sigh, leans it back against the lockers. A shiver runs down his spine. He attempts to hide it by tensing every muscle in his body, as if this is enough to hold himself still. He swallows thickly and looks at Steve through half-lidded eyes. “Remember?”

“You can barely stand,” Steve says, frowning. “You could have that flu that’s going around.”

“I’m _fine_ , mom,” Billy insists. 

“I’m gonna get Robin to cover my shift,” Steve says, effective ignoring him. 

“You don’t have to,” Billy says quietly. 

“Is anyone at your place?” Steve says, still talking over him. “My parents are leaving tonight, I think. You can crash for the weekend, but for now I can take you home.”

“Steve,” Billy says, but Steve seems to be deaf to his words. He nudges Billy to the side and tugs Billy’s bag from his locker. He finds a water bottle inside and hands it to Billy, who tries and fails to refuse it. He makes sure all of Billy’s things are securely inside before zipping it up.

“I’ll pick up some stuff,” he says. “I think we have the basics. The medicine cabinet is usually stocked. But I’ll grab you some soup or something. Do you feel nauseous?”  
  
“You don’t have to-”

“I can rent a movie,” Steve offers. “You’ve been wanting to see that, um…shit, what was it?”

“Steve,” Billy says.

“I’m gonna go tell Robin I’m taking off,” Steve says. “And I’ll call Dustin, tell him I can’t drive him tomorrow. He’s got a bike. He can be his own ride.”

“Steve-”

“Billy,” Steve says, and he gently rests a hand on Billy’s chest. Billy’s brow creases as he raises his eyes to Steve’s. “I know,” Steve says. “I don’t have to. And I know that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. You make that pretty damn clear basically every damn day. Okay? I get it. But I want to take care of you.”

“ _Steve._ ”

“No,” Steve says firmly. “You’re sick, and I’m taking care of you. End of story.”

“Do I get a fucking say?” Billy asks. Steve pretends to consider this.

“No,” he says flatly. “You get a few hours to yourself before my parents leave. I’ll cancel whatever I have to cancel-”

“You don’t have-”

“I _want_ to.” Steve says. “And the longer you fight me, the longer you get to stand here feeling miserable. And don’t tell me that you’re not miserable, because I’m looking right at you. So you’re going to be stuck with me until you’re better. Okay?”

Billy closes his eyes. He swallows thickly, licks his lips- which Steve is just now realizing are dry and slightly cracked -and he sighs a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he says. Steve gives him a small smile. With one brief glance to the door to make sure they are alone, he gently tucks Billy’s hair behind Billy’s ear and stamps a quick kiss to his forehead. 

“Give me a minute,” he tells him. “I’ll be right back.”


	19. winter passing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/187975252550/hey-there-may-i-request-a-fic-please-some  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy is missing. 

He went to a party. He hadn’t wanted to go, but Steve had convinced him. “When was the last time we really blew off some steam, huh?” Billy had suggested another way to blow off steam, and Steve convinced him they could save that for later. “You never go out anymore,” he’d told him, and Billy got quiet the way he always did when the great unspoken _it_ hovered in the air around him. ( _It_ , of course, being Starcourt; he doesn’t name it, doesn’t speak of it, but he knows when Steve is thinking about it - knows when Steve is testing the waters, dipping a toe in to see if now might be a safe time to broach the subject. It never is.) “It’s no one you know,” Steve shrugged. “Not really. My class, mostly. College kids home on break. You don’t even have to talk to them.” 

It was fifteen minutes of the same back-and-forth, but Billy did give in. He went to a party. He spoke to no one. He drank. He drank _a lot_. Steve watched him warily. He tried to slow him down, but there is not stopping Billy Hargrove when he sets his mind to something, so he settled for swiping Billy’s keys. This, at least, would keep him from safe - or so Steve thought.

Billy had slipped away.

Steve isn’t sure when it happened. He asked everyone he passed if they had seen him, and they all said something different: “He was headed for the bathroom”; “I think he was getting a beer”; “He was doing shots in the kitchen, man. Dude’s a bottomless pit.”. 

Steve checked and double checked his pocket, because Billy is sly and smooth and slick and Steve wouldn’t strike pick-pocketing off his list of hidden talents, but the keys never moved. Steve checked the house, the yard around it, and then the house again, but found no sign of Billy.

Now, he is looping around Hawkins in wider and wider circles, white-knuckling the wheel of the Camaro that they took on Billy’s insistence. His foot hovers over the gas as he eases the car slowly down the streets. It has started to snow and he fumbles to flip on the wipers.

Steve’s eyes keep flitting to his watch. The more time passes, the more worried he grows. He swings past the party once or twice, just to check, but Billy hasn’t returned. Steve can’t remember if he was wearing a coat; he remembers how harsh Billy’s first Indiana winter had been. California had not been so frigid, and Billy hates the cold. Steve hadn’t thought he’d ever see Billy more miserable - not until Starcourt, and what came after. 

It is well past midnight when Steve spots a hunched figure stumbling in the street. As he gets closer he recognizes the thin denim jacket stretched over hunched shoulders. Steve rolls down the window as he draws nearer, slowing the car to crawl.

“Billy!” he calls, but Billy doesn’t hear him. Steve pulls up to the curb and calls his name again but Billy only shivers and wraps his arms tighter around his middle. He isn’t walking well; his feet catch on the snow, his boots snagging on the ice beneath. He almost falls two times. Steve, heart-racing, throws the car in park and darts to Billy just in time to catch his third fall. 

“The _fuck,_ ” Billy snaps. “G’off!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks, struggling to keep hold while Billy fights for freedom. He is shivering all over. His teeth are chattering and when he takes Steve’s hands to try to pry Steve off of him his fingers are ice cold. Steve thinks they must be numb because Billy can’t find his grip. “Billy,” Steve tries, but Billy elbows him in the chest in his scramble to escape. Steve holds him tighter, closer, repeating his name as the fight ebbs from Billy’s bones. “Billy,” he says. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Get _off_ ,” Billy slurs. He speaks like his tongue is swollen, like his mouth is too small to fit the words inside. He sounds tired, too. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Steve tells him, exasperated. “Do you even know how long you’ve been gone? Jesus, Billy, I was really fucking worried about you.” Billy is still struggling, but with much less force. He nearly sags against Steve as Steve pulls them both to their feet. He turns Billy around and when he does he sees blood dried beneath Billy’s nose. 

Steve’s tone softens and he says, “Hey.”. He reaches to touch Billy’s face and Billy ducks his head. His hair, full of flurried snowflakes, falls over his eyes. “Hey,” Steve says again. “What happened?” Billy keeps dodging him, jerking his head away until Steve gently brushes his hair away and touches his thumb to Billy’s chin. Billy reluctantly peeks up at him. “Where did you go?”

“H-Home,” Billy says. 

“Billy,” Steve says. “Did he-” he starts, but he stops when Billy drops his gaze. Steve relents; he lets Billy look away, lets him lower his head. Steve doesn’t need an answer; he can put the pieces together. A drunken kid stumbles home in the middle of the night, wakes up the angry father that hadn’t permitted him to leave. The ending is ugly; it’s always ugly. That’s how all of Billy’s stories go, so why would tonight be any different? 

Steve keeps one hand on Billy’s arm to hold him upright and he sighs the heaviest sigh of his life. The snow is still falling, and Steve thinks Billy will freeze to the sidewalk if they stand still much longer. “Come on,” Steve says. “Let’s get you warm.” 

With some difficulty, he gets Billy into the Camaro’s passenger seat. He blasts the heat and keeps one comforting, steadying hand on Billy’s shoulder as he drives. 

The Harrington house is dark and quiet. Steve’s car sits alone in the driveway, and Steve parks the Camaro beside it. Billy picks up his fight when Steve tries to help him inside, insisting on walking on his own even though he can’t seem to keep his feet beneath him. Steve tries his best to steer him away from ice, He gets Billy upstairs and into the bathroom. He begins to draw a bath, then sets to work getting Billy out of his now-wet clothes. The snow completely soaked through his jeans and left melted patches all over Billy’s jacket. There are still some flakes clinging to his hair. When Steve undresses him, he finds Billy’s skin cold to the touch, and Billy seems to brace himself against the sting of the air around him.

“You need to start dressing for the weather,” Steve says, tossing Billy’s flimsy button-down to the floor. Billy grumbles something unintelligible. Steve isn’t sure he’s even using real words. In his drunkenness, he seems to devolved into some form of primitive speech. 

“What’re you doing?” Billy complains as Steve tries to get his jeans off of him. He tries to twist away, but he is clumsy and only manages to pin himself against the wall. 

“Don’t get excited,” Steve says. “Just don’t want this shit to freeze to you forever.”

“Fuck off,” Billy says. He staggers when Steve nudges him toward the bathtub, and protests when Steve tries to guide him into the water. 

“Come on,” Steve says. “Come on, you’re freezing. Just get in.” 

“You coming?” Billy slurs. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Steve tells him. Once he succeeds in getting Billy into the tub, he tells him, “Stay here. I’m going to turn up the heat.” 

“Yeah you are,” Billy mumbles.

“You’re impossible,” Steve tells him. Billy mutters something that Steve doesn’t quite catch. Steve excuses himself, leaves Billy to turn up the thermostat, to gather clean clothes, to find extra blankets for the bed. When he returns, Billy is dozing in the tub. Steve lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There is still blood dried up by his nose and Steve can see a bruise blossoming over Billy’s cheek. His eye, too, looks puffy and Steve thinks it will be black and blue by morning. He feels a tightness in his chest- guilt, he thinks. It makes his queasy and he hopes that he can quell it before Billy wakes up with the mother of all hangovers.

Steve lets himself into the room. Billy doesn’t notice him. His lips, chapped from the cold, are parted slightly and his eyelids flutter when Steve’s shadow falls over him. 

“Shh,” Steve says. He brushes Billy’s hair behind his hair and traces the line of Billy’s cheekbone, carefully, gently, over the purpling skin. He finds a washcloth, soaks it, and uses it to dab the blood from Billy’s nose. 

His eyes drop down to the scars on Billy’s chest, the ones that snake and curve down his sides and toward his hips. The ones Billy tries to hide. The ones he doesn’t let Steve touch. The ones that give him nightmares that wake him screaming in the dead of the night, the ones that still ache when Billy moves the wrong way. Steve hesitates, then rests his fingers against the largest one, the one nestled at the center of Billy’s chest. Billy stirs at the touch. He groans, and he blinks wearily up at Steve. Feeling caught, Steve drops his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.

“Hm?” Billy hums. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. He sighs. “I’m sorry for dragging you out tonight. Maybe if I’d just dropped it, this wouldn’t have-”

“It’d happen anyway,” Billy murmurs. His eyes are closing against, and Steve rouses him by splashing some water over his chest. Billy groans, grumbles, sighs. He fixes Steve with a sleepy sort of look that he tries to make serious. “It would,” he says. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks, pointing to his cheek where the bruise is forming on Billy’s. 

“It’s not bad,” Billy slurs. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow,” Steve tells him.

“No shit,” Billy says. He sighs, and his eyes slip shut again. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “Why don’t we get you to bed?”

“M’not in the mood,” Billy groans.

“You’re impossible,” Steve says again. He rises, looming over the tub to haul Billy up by the armpits. Billy’s breath hitches and he gets water on Steve as he tries to get himself out of the bath. Steve has to hold him tighter than he means to, and Billy tries to tear himself away. “Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says. “Stop fighting me, asshole. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just trying to help.” 

This seems to calm Billy at least a bit. He lets Steve dry him, dress him. He lets himself be lead to Steve’s bedroom and wrapped up in blankets. 

“I really am sorry” Steve says when they are lying in bed together, Billy dozing against Steve’s chest, Steve playing with his damp hair. “I’m sorry for making you go tonight.”

“Quit the guilt trip, Harrington,” Billy murmurs. His voice is muffled as he nuzzles his head against Steve. Steve holds him closer, rubs his back, tucks Billy’s head beneath his chin. 

“I’m serious,” Steve says. 

“I know,” says Billy. 

“Do you need anything?” Steve asks him.

“Head hurts,” Billy groans.

“I can get you-”

“Just shut up,” Billy says. His words are harsh, but his tone is light, and it makes Steve smile. He squeezes Billy closer; kisses the top of his head. 

“You got it,” he whispers. Outside, the snow falls quietly on their hushed little town. The windows fog from the high heat of the house. Billy burrows beneath the mound of blankets Steve has built for him. He nestles as close as he can to Steve, and Steve lets him. He listens as Billy’s breath evens out. He counts each little heartbeat until he falls asleep, too.


	20. skin against skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188035296720/hiiiiii-would-you-do-horror-prompt-25-with-the  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve should have known. 

Or maybe he shouldn’t have. He’d been careful, after all. He was good at hiding. At least, he thought he was. He was good at busying Billy’s hands so that he wouldn’t try to peel Steve’s shirt off. He was good at diverting Billy’s attention any time he _did_ get Steve undressed. He was good at angling his body away from Billy, at picking shirts with fabric thick enough to stop Billy from feeling what lie underneath, good at keeping Billy’s eyes on the things he wanted him to see and fielding everything he didn’t.

They’ve been drinking. That, at least, is a factor. Beers at Tommy’s party. Vodka from Steve’s father’s liquor cabinet- just a taste off each bottle, enough to feel it but enough to tip the old man off to their thievery. Billy had managed to swipe a handle of whisky; Steve isn’t sure where he’d snagged it, but they’d passed the bottle between them and downed it rather quickly. So, maybe the room was spinning. Maybe Steve was caught off-guard. The question- the one he’d been avoiding, the conversation he didn’t want to have -arose.

“Where’d all these scars from?”

Billy’s words are slurred and sloppy. They collapse each other like dominos. Steve almost doesn’t understand him, but that one ugly word bubbled to the surface. _Scars_. Billy is kissing them. Steve can feel his lips gaze the raised, angry lines. The feeling is…not as awful as Steve expected it to be. HIs heart rate quickens. Billy leans his chin against Steve’s shoulder.

“Hm?” he hums, breath tickling Steve’s ear. He kisses Steve’s jaw, trails down his neck, and a shudder runs down Steve’s spine.

“It’s nothing,” he says. 

“Nothing,” Billy repeats, voice muffled as he kisses along Steve’s shoulder blade and lands on the edge of a scar. Suddenly, Steve is not so effected by his touch. Or, more accurately, he is affected in a different way. He feels exposed. He feels unsure. He rolls his shoulders to shake Billy off, and Billy grumbles in response. 

“Yeah,” Steve tells him. “Nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothing,” Billy slurs. 

“Just forget it,” says Steve. 

“Hmph,” Billy sighs. Steve feels Billy’s forehead press against his back. He crosses his fingers, says a silent prayer, hopes against hope that Billy is drunk enough to forget- to drop it- to let it go. He doesn’t. “Was it a fight?” Billy asks.

“I said forget it,” Steve says. He tries to move away, to untangle himself from Billy’s arms, but Billy holds fast. His grip on Steve’s middle tightens. He edges closer when Steve tries to pull away. He tucks his chin against Steve’s shoulder, his chest pressed firm against Steve’s back, Steve’s scars flush against Billy’s bare skin.

“Hey,” Billy says, and in that single syllable lies a clarity he should not have given the beer and the vodka and the whisky that will have him puking his guts out in just a few hours’ time. Steve twists to look at him, and Billy’s hold loosens enough for him to succeed. Billy’s brow is furrowed. There is concern written in every line on his face and it sends a pang of guilt through Steve.

_You have to lie_ , he thinks, at the same he thinks, _You can’t lie to him_. 

There is something sincere in the way Billy watches him, in the way Billy’s grasp relaxes and the way his hand ghosts lightly over Steve’s spine. This is not judgment, Steve realizes, It is sincerity. It is solidarity. 

“Steve,” Billy says. Steve melts at the sound. He has always liked the way his name sounds in Billy’s voice; the way it sits on his tongue, the way it drifts from his mouth. He sighs. Billy brushes back his hair. “Hey,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to,” Steve finds himself saying. The words surprise him. They surprise Billy, too. He adjusts himself- adjusts them both -so that they are properly face to face. He touches Steve’s chin and lifts his head. Steve blinks at him, suddenly at a lost for words. He swallows thickly. “It’s a long story,” he says; a lame excuse, he knows, but Billy meets it with a soft smile and the gentle brush of his thumb along Steve’s jaw. 

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he says. 

Steve thinks about telling him; he thinks about spilling the truth. He thinks about the demogorogons and their claws. He remembers how it felt to have his skin split open, about the rough way Nancy and Jonathan held him and cleaned his wounds. He thinks about Dustin telling him that he’d done his best and that they were all the better for it. He thinks about how he didn’t believe those words. He thinks about how crazy it all sounds. 

“You’ll think I’m nuts,” Steve says. 

Billy gets quiet, then. Quiet in a way that is unlike him. Quiet in a way that unsettles Steve. His eyes don’t leave Steve’s face, even when Steve averts his own. He can feel them burning against his cheek and he tries to will Billy away. 

It doesn’t work. 

Steve sighs again. He runs a hand through his hair, and Billy follows it with his own, and the care he takes makes Steve melt. He thinks about leaning against Billy, about falling against his chest and letting himself dissolve there. 

But Billy pulls away.

He pulls away and he twists his body and shows a scar that Steve knows, a faint one that crawls along his ribs, one that Steve has kissed absently time and time again without a second thought. 

“I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours,” Billy says. Steve grazes his thumb along that white line. It juts along Billy’s ribs and curves toward his back. He silently curses himself for never asking about it, for never thinking about it, for hardly caring about it. 

Billy gets in fights. He collects scars. Steve never thought much about their stories.

Again, he sighs. 

“Seriously,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“Seriously,” Billy parrots. “I’ve got time.”

Billy makes a show of leaning back against the pillows. He laces his fingers behind his head and lets out a long, loud sigh. He nudges Steve his his foot and Steve, again, sighs. He leans against Billy. He lets Billy wrap his arms around him. He rest his head against Billy’s chest.

“You’re seriously gonna think I’m nuts,” he tells him.

“Starting to think it already,” Billy says. 

“Oh, fuck off,” says Steve.

“You had a story,” Billy urges. 

“There are these things,” Steve says. “These monsters.”

“There’s all kinds of monsters,” Billy tells him with a drunken wisdom that sounds almost too sincere. It gives Steve pause. He looks up at Billy. but Billy is staring at the ceiling and doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s eye on him. Steve rests against him once more. 

“They’re called demogorgons,” Steve goes on.

“Isn’t that-”

“-some D&D shit,” Steve finishes. “Yeah, I know. The kids found it first. They named it. Do you want me to tell the story?”

“Sorry,” Billy murmurs. “Go ahead.”

Steve tells him everything. He tells him all the things he’s not supposed to tell anybody. He tells him about the demogorgons and the Upside Down. He tells him about Eleven and the gate that she opened. He tells him about _that night_. He tells him about his scars. He tells him about how they burned like nothing he’d ever felt before, about he’d tried to hide them, about he hates them. The more he speaks, the more he wants to escape. The more he wants to escape, the closer Billy holds him. He thinks that Billy knows. He thinks that Billy can sense his need to run. He thinks that Billy won’t let him go, and on some level, he is grateful. 

When he is finished, silence settles over them like a thick and heavy fog. 

“Well?” Steve says eventually.

“Thats-” Billy starts, but does not finish.

“Fucking crazy,” Steve says. “I know.”

“Nah,” Billy says. “Heard crazier,” he says. “Had crazier,” he says.

“No way in hell,” says Steve.

“Maybe not,” Billy shrugs. His fingers are lazily tangled in Steve’s hair. His free hand is drawing circles over Steve’s back. His chin tucks Steve’s head beneath it and he quietly hums a tune Steve isn’t quite sure he recognizes. He isn’t running. He isn’t telling Steve to fuck off. He believes him, Steve realizes. And, even if he doesn’t, he cares enough to stay despite the insanity of Steve’s story. 

Eventually, when Billy is quiet for too long, Steve mumbles, “Your turn.”

“Don’t think I can top yours,” Billy tells him.

“Try me,” Steve challenges, and he knows that Billy won’t back down. 

“Let’s just say,” Billy says, “there are different kind of monsters.”

Steve’s drunken brain can’t quite comprehend, though he thinks he knows what Billy may be alluding to. He cranes his neck to look up at Billy, but Billy is still looking up at the ceiling, and his fingers are still lazily combing through Steve’s hair. 

Steve curls up against him. He burrows his head against Billy’s chest and relishes the feeling of Billy’s arms around him, even as his skin presses against Steve’s scars. He sighs heavily. The world drifts away. The only real thing is Billy, solid and firm, holding him, bracing him, protecting him. They could have a thousand different conversations and Steve would remember nothing more than this: the filling of Billy’s fingers in his hair, of Billy’s chest rising and falling, of Billy telling him to to worry - that it was okay - that he could handle the monsters, no matter what they looked like or how they appeared. That Steve was safe. That they were both safe, together. 


	21. painkiller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188057533710/hi-there-id-like-to-request-a-fic-please-some  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

There are things that Steve has come to expect from Billy. On occasion, he gets nasty. He snarls and scowls and stomps around like the whole world’s on his shit list (and sometimes, Steve really thinks it is). When he’s drunk, he’s aggressive. A sober Billy finds fights, but when he’s drunk, he seeks them out. Steve dragged him away with raw knuckles and bloody noses and blooming bruises three or four times before he started to learn the warning signs- the puffed chest, the clenched fists, the scowl that sets on his face when he wants to pummel something (some _one_ ) into the ground. He has quiet spells, too. He can go days without saying a single word. 

Of all of Billy’s moods, these worry Steve the most. 

They are in Billy’s car, parked on the far side of quarry where no one will see them, and a song that Steve doesn’t know is pulsing through the stereo speakers. Billy sits at the wheel, his seat pushed all the way back so he can stretch his legs out, with his head leaning against the window. His sunglasses shield his eyes. On hand rests lazily on the gear shift, fingers tapping along with the bass. 

Steve has sheets of paper spread across his lap: college applications, half-filled out. He bites on the end of a pencil and tries to concentrate on the little bubbles dotting the questionnaires. _Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Have you ever been suspended from an academic institution? What is your ethnicity?_ The words swim across the page as Steve fights to focus, but he constantly loses his place as he his gaze is drawn toward Billy. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Steve looks at his watch; Billy has barely moved in thirty minutes.

“Hey,” Steve says, and Billy jerks his head. “You okay, man?”

“Fine,” Billy grunts. His voice is low, monotonous; there’s no power behind it. Billy lets his head rest back against the window. His hand goes to his face, and though he makes it seem like he is only adjusted his glasses Steve can see him holding his breath and pinching the bridge of his nose for one, two, three, four seconds before dropping his arm and rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to loosen his muscles. His movements are slower than usual; Steve might even call them delicate.

“You sure?” Steve asks. “You look kind of pale.”

“This shithole town doesn’t get any sun,” Billy says.

Steve cannot dispute this. A chill started setting in Hawkins in early September and is not eager to let go. But still, “That’s not what I meant.” Billy says nothing. He doesn’t even humor Steve with a grunt. Steve returns to his papers, but he can’t help but watch Billy from the corner of his eye. He sees Billy move stiffly, adjusting himself in his seat. He watches him lean his seat back, cross his arms over his chest, grit his teeth for the briefest of moments. 

When Billy sits back up, he reaches for the radio and switches the dial in a direction that, up until this point, Steve didn’t think he knew it could go. The music, once swollen in the small space, shrinks down to whisper. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asks him. 

“Fuck, are you my mother?” Billy says. 

“You have a headache?” Steve asks. 

“What is wrong with you?” Billy snarls, though it loses its punch with such an even, unfettered tone. Billy puts no inflection into his words. He sounds almost robotic. 

“What’s wrong with _you_?” Steve presses. 

“I didn’t come out here for you to bitch at me,”

“I’m not bitching!” Steve raises his voice, and Billy flinches. It happens for a split second, but Steve sees it. Billy’s brows furrow and he scowls, his nose wrinkles and he turns his head away from Steve. It all happens at once, and Billy settles again he doesn’t relax completely. There is tension around his mouth and pulling thin lines around his eyes. “You have a headache?” Steve guesses.

“It’s nothing,” Billy shrugs. 

“We don’t have to stay,” Steve says, “if you don’t feel good.”

“I said it’s nothing,” Billy insists. 

Steve quiets down again. He tries for a third time to focus on his college applications. He manages to fill in a few of the bubbles before Billy smacks the overhead light off. With the sun setting quickly, the following dark swallows all the words Steve wasn’t sure he was reading correctly anyway. He gathers up the papers.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s it. Get up.”

“The fuck?” Billy says. He seems genuinely startled when Steve reaches across the console for the wheel. 

“Move,” he tells Billy.

“You lose your mind, Harrington?”

“I said move,” Steve says, more aggressively this time, and he sees- beneath the sunglasses that still haven’t come off -Billy squeeze his eyes shut too long to be blinking. 

“No way in hell,” Billy says. 

“You’re telling me you can drive like this?” Steve says. When Billy says nothing, Steve yanks Billy’s sunglasses off his face. 

“Fuck!” Billy swears. He swats and Steve, narrowly missing him but issuing enough force to knock the glasses from Steve’s hands regardless. They clatter to the floor and Billy scrambles to catch them, He leans forward as he puts them back on, and his hands linger against by the bridge of his nose. His breath is angry-ragged. 

“Billy,” Steve says cautiously. His hands hover now over Billy’s back, but Billy pays him no mind. Steve sighs. He tests the waters- lights one hand on Billy’s shoulder. Billy tenses at the touch but does not pull away. “Get up. Let me drive you home.” 

“Fuck off,” Billy groans. 

“You could’ve just told me you get migraines,” Steve says. “We could’ve just stayed in. I’m cool just, like, sitting in the dark. If that’s what you need, I mean.”

“I’m fine,” Billy says.

“Drop the act, Hargrove,” Steve sighs. “I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Try to drive, then,” Steve relents. He leans back in the passenger seat and watches Billy gingerly push himself upright. He slides his seat back up and revs the engine. With clenched teeth, he backs the car out of its makeshift spot and edges it slowly toward the road. He is jerky, and the car is, too. “Okay,” Steve says, grabbing the wheel to steady it. “I’m not dying because you’re stubborn. Switch with me.”

“I’m-”

“-switching. Now.”

“You’re a real fucking pain, you know that?”

“Yeah, I pride myself on it. Come on. Park and get out.”

Billy puts the car in park. He sits there for a moment, and Steve is about to ask if he needs help when Billy throws open his door and slowly gets to his feet. He leans against the car for a moment, stays there even as Steve, too, gets out to take over. Steve gently guides him to the passenger seat, Billy grumbling and swearing at him the whole way.

“Call me whatever you want,” Steve says. “You’ll thank me later.”

The Hargrove house is quiet when Steve pulls up. There are no other cars in the driveway. One light is on inside, warm and yellow in Max’s window. Steve sees her peek outside; sees her shadow move out of the room. She meets them at the front door.

“I told you shouldn’t go out,” she says to Billy as Steve helps him inside. Billy is unsteady on his feet, but equally unhappy about accepting Steve’s help. He tries to get ahead of him a few times, but the spinning room and spots in front of his eyes don’t help. He is still wearing his sunglasses. He doesn’t take them off until he is in his bedroom, seated on the bed, and even then it is Steve who- gently this time -eases them off his face.

“You can tell him you told him so later, okay?” Steve says, keeping his voice low. He sets Billy’s sunglasses on the nightstand and starts to pull the covers back on Billy’s bed. “He feels like shit.”

“He’s right here,” Billy growls. 

“There’s Excedrin in the bathroom,” Max says. She matches Steve’s tone. “I’ll get it.” 

“Get him water, too,” Steve says. In Max’s absence, he manages to get Billy out of his jacket and boots. With much protesting on Billy’s part, he gets Billy to lay down, and he thanks Max when she returns. “This happen a lot?” Steve asks. He shakes a pill from the bottle and coaxes it onto Billy’s tongue, then holds the water up to Billy’s lips. Billy tries to refuse, but Steve is persistent, and Billy swallows a few gulps before Steve sets the glass down. 

“Not really,” Max shrugs. “But it’s always bad.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t take care of it?”

“He’s still right fucking here,” Billy grumbles, and Steve gently smooths Billy’s hair back. 

“Nope,” Max says. 

“Well, I’ve got him for now,” Steve says, and when Billy seems like he’s going to quip at him, Steve shush him softly, brushing his thumb over Billy’s lips and tracing along his jaw. He backs off when Billy flinches, goes back to lightly playing with Billy’s hair. Billy huffs, but he doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t pull away. Steve counts this a success. “When do your parents get back?” Steve asks, dropping his voice even lower as Billy’s eyelids flutter close to sleep. 

“I don’t know,” Max admits. Steve looks toward Billy’s window; if he can fit through Nancy’s second floor bedroom window, he thinks that Billy’s will be a piece of cake. 

“Can you maybe, like…I don’t know, signal me? When they get home?” Steve asks. He looks down at Billy, whose deep frown lines disturb his peace and make Steve ache at the pain Billy must be in. “I want to stay with him for a little bit.”

“Sure,” Max says. “Just, uh…keep the garbage bin by you. He throws up sometimes.”

“Max,” Billy says, annoyed and even a bit betrayed. Again, Steve softly shushes him.

“Will do,” Steve says. “Thanks.” 

Max lingers in the doorway a moment longer before backing away. She closes the door behind her, submerging Billy and Steve in darkness. Steve blinks until his eyes adjust and he moves his hand to Billy’s back, massaging small circles between Billy’s shoulder blades and down his spine.

“You okay?” he asks, though he isn’t sure that Billy is still awake. It takes a minute before Billy hums a half-response.

“Fine,” he says. Here, alone and in the dark, he finally starts to uncoil. Every little movement seems to hurt him, so he does his best to stay still and Steve, too, does his best not to jostle him. He stays close. He listens to Billy’s breath even out. 

“Hey,” Steve says, though this time he knows that Billy is asleep. There is no response from him. His features smooth minute by minute, though there is still lingering tension there. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know,” he whispers. “You’re a pain in the ass, Hargrove. But I think you’re pretty worth it.”


	22. cough syrup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188079456305/sooo-a-billy-request-bc-you-do-him-so-damn-well  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy Hargrove is good at a lot of things; being sick is not one of them.

Not that anyone is particularly _good_ at being ill. Some people simply handle it better than others, and Billy tends not to handle it at all. Doctors’ recommendations- rest and fluids, medication -tend to fall by the wayside. Instead, he prefers to act as though he is not sick at all. The logic, of course, is that if he pretends he is well, his body will catch up. In seventeen years, he has yet to succeed, but this does not stop him from trying. And so, when he wakes up with sinus pain and a sore throat, he promptly ignores it. 

He downs the half-finished cup of cold coffee his father left abandoned on the kitchen table. He searches for the history book he’s not even sure he brought home. He shouts at Max to, “Hurry your ass up or I’m leaving without you!” He revs the engine like he’s really going to do it, and when Max does get in the car he says, “You’re explaining if we’re late.”

“What the hell’s wrong with your voice?”

Billy clears his throat and says, “Nothing.”

Max doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press the matter. She is quiet for the whole drive, but when Billy pulls up outside of Hawkins Middle School, she lingers in the car. Billy can feel her gaze on him, and he raises his eyebrow at her. 

“Get out,” Billy says, words strained as he stifles a cough. Max looks like she’s going to say something, and Billy almost hopes she does- almost wants her to ask if he’s okay, almost wants her to figure out what’s really wrong - _almost_. But she doesn’t. She throws open the door and drops her skateboard onto the ground. 

The day drags at a glacial pace. The longer it lasts, the worse Billy feels. He tries to brush it off. He keeps up his act as long as he can, stealing away private moments to collect himself when he thinks the mask is about to fall. On one such occasion he stumbles out of a bathroom stall to find Steve there, hands on his hips, waiting.

“The fuck do you want?” Billy grumbles. He doesn’t mean to be harsh and he hopes that Steve knows this. They have an agreement, after all. Their classmates think they hate each other, and that is the safest assumption for anyone to have. Steve opens his arms to reveal the empty room around them. 

“Cut the shit,” he says. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Billy says. He shoves past Steve and turns on a faucet. The cold water sends a shudder down his spine. He grits his teeth, pumps soap into his palm, watches the suds rise up beneath the rush of water.

“Tell your face,” Steve says. Billy takes a brief look in the mirror. There are deep circles under his eyes (he’d been telling people he’d had a shitty night’s sleep, which wasn’t entirely a lie); he even thinks he sees some swelling there, a puffiness that hadn’t been there this morning. Billy grabs a paper towel, dries his hands, almost uses it to blow his nose and then remembers that he’s not supposed to be sick. He tosses the towel in the waste bin. “Oh, come on,” Steve says.

“Shut up,” says Billy.

“It’s just us,” Steve says. “You can say it.”

“Say _what_?” Billy demands. 

“That you’re sick,” says Steve. 

“I’m not-”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “You promised you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“That was about-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says.

“You’re a fucking dick, Harrington, you know that?”

“And you look like death warmed over,” Steve says. Billy hangs his head. He looks cornered, and Steve sags his shoulders, almost feeling bad. “We still on for tonight?” he asks, and he can see Billy’s relief at the change in subject.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “I just gotta wait for my dad to leave.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He stands there a moment too long, watching Billy carefully. Then he says, “Tonight.” 

Of course, by the time tonight rolls around Billy _feels_ like death warmed over, re-frozen, and thawed out again. He aches all over and his throat is on fire. He does not have his usual quick wit when he picks Max up after school. There is none of their usual bickering, and though Max won’t stop staring at him, the only thing she asks is, “Are you seeing Steve tonight?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Billy grumbles, voice so low Max almost doesn’t hear him.

“It doesn’t,” Max says.

“Then why’d you ask?” He sounds like he’s been gargling with rocks and he surpasses a cough at the end of every sentence he speaks.

“You can drop me off at Mike’s,” she says. “If you want to just go straight to Steve’s. I’ll tell Neil I stayed for AV club.”

“And why would you do that?” Billy asks.

“Because you’re sick and Neil’s not gonna do jack shit about it,” Max says. “But Steve will.”

“I’m not sick,” Billy says.

“Well, you can drop me off at Mike’s anyway,” Max says. She is finding her footing on what she hopes is the path of least resistance and, luckily for her, Billy doesn’t have the energy to argue. He swings a right abruptly, circles back toward the school, makes his way to Wheeler house. When he asks Max when he’s supposed to pick her up, she says, “Just stay at Steve’s. I’ll get a ride with Will.”

“Max, I can-”

“Ask Steve for NyQuil or something. Sleep off whatever you don’t think you have.”

“You’re not my fucking mother,” Billy says.

“We’re family, right? We’re supposed to look out for each other?”

“Save the speech.”

“You’ll stay at Steve’s?”

“If it’ll make you shut up.”

“It will,” Max says, so Billy agrees. When he arrives at Steve’s house, Steve is surprised to see him so early. Billy lets himself in the back door out of habit. Even when there are no parents home, sneaking is second nature. Steve startles when he hears Billy coming in through the kitchen.

“Christ, man,” he breathes. “Make a noise.”

“Sorry,” Billy mumbles. He furrows his brow when he spots an array of pill bottles lined up on the countertop. There are red and white cans of Campbell’s soup, too, and a box of Lipton’s teabags. “The hell’s all this?”

“For you,” Steve shrugs. “Since you’re obviously not taking care of yourself.”

“Steve, I’m-”

“Don’t say _fine_ ,” Steve says. “Don’t say _not sick_. Actually, don’t say anything. Go sit down. I pulled some blankets out for you. They’re on the couch. I was gonna stop by the video store, but you can just pick from what we have. My dad actually has decent taste for such a stuck-up son of a bitch.”

“Why-”

“Because I care about you, dickhead. That’s why.”

Billy won’t pretend this doesn’t touch him, insult and all. He can’t say that this doesn’t like the attention. He also can’t say the idea of melting into the Harringtons’ overstuffed couch doesn’t sound like everything he’s secretly wanted all day. He approaches Steve from behind, arms snaking around Steve’s middle as Steve rifles through the open cabinet in front of him.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, one hand coming down to rest on top of Billy’s. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” he asks. Billy rests his head in the curve of Steve’s neck and Steve says, “You feel warm.”

“My head is killing me,” Billy admits. “My throat’s killing me.”

“You wanna take something?” Steve asks, and Billy shrugs. “Go lay down.” 

Steve squeezes Billy’s hand and Billy releases him. Steve fishes a bag of cough drops out of the cabinet and shakes a few into Billy’s palm before Billy retreats into the living room. Steve makes him tea, pours him cough syrup, makes two trips to carry in both water and whatever orange juice they had leftover in the carton in the fridge. By the time he finally settles down beside Billy, Billy is cocooned in the nest of blankets Steve had laid out for him. Steve gets some medicine into him: Robatussin and some Ibuprofen. He sits down beside Billy and, when Billy leans again him, he gently guides Billy to lay down. Billy settles his head in Steve’s lap and allows Steve to brush back his hair. 

“You okay?” Steve asks him, though Billy is twilighting somewhere between awake and asleep and he’s entirely sure if Billy can hear him. 

“Everything hurts,” Billy mumbles.

“Drama queen,” Steve teases, but he slips his hand to Billy’s shoulders and gently massages the coiled muscles there. 

“Shut up,” Billy quips. He sounds sleepy, and Steve softly shushes him. He rubs Billy’s back, and Billy slowly drifts off. As he does, a fleeting thought floats through his mind: maybe, just maybe, this is better than toughing shit out. 


	23. the mighty fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188229012230/could-you-do-some-harringrove-angst-where-steve-is  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy can deal with pain. Hell, he’s used to it. He’s splinted his own broken bones, walked on torn ligaments, has needed stitches more times than he can count. He’s taken enough spills on sports’ fields and off to have a laundry list of past injuries still setting off alarms through his body when he dares to move the wrong way. Pain is, for all intents and purposes, a part of him - a part that he can handle.

Other people’s pain, however, does not sit so well with him.

It happened quick, as most things do. 

Steve was there, and then he wasn’t. 

Billy’s heart leapt into his throats hard and fast he thought he’d choke. He tried to scream, to call Steve’s name, to say _anything_ , but no sound came out. He shoved an oncoming demo dog aside, pummeled it until it stopped writhing, and ran towards the spot where Steve had gone down. Max and Dustin had to come to aid, using Steve’s bat and a borrowed slingshot to ward off their attackers. Max had nearly hit Billy before she realized it was him and not some gory monster; she stood there, eyes wide, the string of the slingshot drawn back, and at the last second she aimed it behind him and hit a demodog square between the eyes. 

Max stepped aside, and Billy charged between her and Dustin to find Steve, unconscious, on the ground. There was blood, black and sludge-like, still dripping from Billy’s hands as he gathered Steve into his arms.

That blood is still there, dried up and clinging to Billy’s skin, hours later. He is in the Byers’ kitchen, his hands in his lap, picking at flecks of crusted blood on his fingers. He sits facing the hall and watching the shadows of Joyce and Chief Hopper and Nancy Wheeler move about inside Jonathan’s bedroom, where they had ushered Steve. Jonathan flits in and out, carrying towels and a first aid kit and bowls of soapy water. Billy watches, itching to get up, desperate to help, but rooted to the spot. Someone taps him on the shoulder and when he looks up Max is holding a damp cloth out to him.

Billy says nothing, but he takes the cloth and turns it over in his hands.

“Are you okay?” Max asks. Billy just shrugs. He scrubs at his palms, scowling at the crud that peels off his skin. “He’s gonna be okay,” Max says. At this, Billy looks to her. “He is,” she says. She sits down across from him and rests her elbows on the table. “Hopper says he’s just knocked out. Concussed, maybe. And a little bruised up. But he’ll be okay.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it,” Billy mumbles.

“Are you waiting for everyone to leave?” Max asks. “To go see him?” Billy’s silence is answer enough, and when it stretches on too long Max says, “I can kick them out.”

“Maxine,” Billy warns.

Max is quiet for a moment, and then another, and then she says, “Mrs. Byers says we can stay over tonight. Steve, too, obviously.”

“Okay,” Billy says.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not concussed, are you?”

“I wish I was,” Billy says before he can catch himself, He winces, then says, “I mean-”

“I know what you mean,” Max says. “You should go see him. He’ll want you there.”

Billy does not answer. Max, too, stays quiet. She watches him watch Hopper and Joyce exit the bedroom together. They linger in the doorway, talking to one another, before heading into the living room to check on the kids. Billy waits another minute longer before finally rising. He doesn’t look back at Max, but he can feel her eyes on him as he makes his way down the hallway.

The room is illuminated with the soft yellow glow of a small lamp in one corner. Steve is asleep on the bed, his head turned to one side, a band-aid angled on his forehead. The first aid kit lays still-open on the nightstand, and thin, filmy paper of gauze and bandage packaging litters the inside of the kit. Steve’s shit is open, and Billy can see fresh bruises rising to the surface of his skin. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, hovering in the doorway, but when he hears footsteps coming toward the hall Billy instinctively jerks himself forward and shuts the door behind him. When he does, a small sound emits behind him. Billy turns to see Steve blinking awake, grumbling to himself as he does and trying to push himself onto his elbows.

“Woah, hey,” Billy says. 

Max’s shadow pauses outside the door, then passes down the hall. Billy abandons the door and takes long strides toward to the bed. Steve startles when Billy touches his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Billy says. “It’s just me. Lay down.”

“Billy?” When Steve speaks, he sounds drunk. Letters and words all slur together. Steve blinks rapidly, trying desperately to grab hold of something. One hand, too, struggles to grasp something tangible. His fingers latch onto Billy’s wrist and squeeze tight. His eyes, too, land on Billy’s and clarity sparks somewhere in them. “What-” he tries, then swallows thickly. He clears his throat. Billy lowers himself cautiously on the edge of the bed, moving his arm to loosen Steve’s grip so that he can hold his hand instead of having Steve claw at his wrist. “What happened?” Steve manages to ask.

“You got knocked down,” Billy explains. “Knocked _out_ , really. Stay down, okay? You went down hard.”

“Head hurts,” Steve groans, and he lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Billy gently threads his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve’s furrowed brow relaxes at his touch, and he breathes a heavy sigh as Billy gingerly massages his scalp.

“I know,” Billy says. “Chief thinks you’re concussed.”

“I can’t even spell concussed,” Steve says.

“I won’t quiz you,” says Billy. “What else hurts?”

“If I say everything does that sound dramatic?”

“Yes,” Billy admits.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy tells him. 

“Why’re you sorry?” Steve asks. The longer he is awake, the less he wants to be. Billy can tell because his eyelids are heavy, fluttering and struggling to come back up. As Billy gently plays with Steve’s hair, Steve nudges his head closer and closer until it is in Billy’s lap. 

“I should’ve been there for you,” Billy shrugs. “It should’ve been me.”

“Uh-uh,” Steve says. He is half-asleep now, and Billy wonders how coherent he is.

“Go to sleep, Harrington,” Billy tells him.

“S’not your fault,” Steve murmurs against Billy’s thigh. 

“Okay,” Billy says.

“I mean it,” Steve says. He shifts, and Billy looks down to find Steve looking up at him earnestly. Billy brushes his thumb over Steve’s forehead, mindful of the bandaid and the surely tender wound it shields. “It’s not your fault,” he says sincerely. 

“Okay,” Billy says.

“It’s not,” Steve insists.

“Go to sleep,” Billy tells him. Steve holds his gaze for a few beats longer and then he sighs and, for a second time, succumbs to his exhaustion. He curls up beside Billy, and Billy rests a hand on Steve’s back, careful of the bruises he is sure must be blooming beneath the fabric of Steve’s shirt. 

Before Steve falls asleep, he murmurs the word, “Hurts.” and Billy fells his whole chest tighten. He can deal with pain. This he knows. He can handle bruising and throbbing headaches and broken bones. And if it were him, he wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care about the concussion or the soreness spread up and down his back. But it’s not him: it’s Steve, and Steve shouldn’t be in pain. All Billy wants to do is take it all from; take it all _for_ him. Ever sharp inhale of Steve’s breath sends a pang of guilt through Billy’s entire being, and it kills him even more that all he can do is sit there, holding him, whispering quiet assurances and praying for the pain to stop. 

Outside the dark window, it begins to rain. 


	24. dancing with your demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188248520005/can-you-do-a-harringrove-imagine-where-billy-wales  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

It always starts in the dark. 

Billy cannot see more than an inch in any direction. The room is large and hollow and cavernous. It smells like chlorine and copper. Billy feels nauseous. The shadows press in around him. They reach out to grab him. He can feel something gripping his ankle and curling around his waist. When he tries to scream, that same something covers his mouth. He struggles and writhes, tries to tear himself away, but the more he fights the weaker he feels. There is laughter deep in the recesses of his brain, and then it echoes all around him. He feels his scars start to rip at their seems, feels blood on his skin. He screams and no sound comes out and the effort makes his chest burn but he can’t help it; he howls in pain and desperation, he falls to his knees, his whole body shudders and jerks and-

Billy wakes in a cold sweat. 

The dark is all around him. His heart throbs at the base of his throat. He swallows it back down and blinks- sees the outline of a window; blinks again, sees the shadow of a lamp. The little alarm clock perched on the nightstand ticks away the seconds and behind him Billy can hear Steve’s steady, rhythmic breathing. Slowly, clarity sets in. Their jackets on the floor, their overturned shoes, the wind sweeping the curtains over the floorboards. Billy rolls onto his back. He throws the covers away and sighs as the window whistles through the open window to kiss his skin. He stares at the ceiling. One hand settles over the thick scar carved against his chest and he tries, in vain, not to think about it splitting him open. 

“Fuck,” Billy groans. He rises, trying desperately not to jostle Steve. 

Steve has, of course, put up with enough from Billy. From sneaking visits to the hospital to cleaning Billy’s wounds (and, subsequently, being smacked away and berated by a drug-addled Billy who insisted he could take care of himself just fine, thanks), he’s given up enough of his time and poured out all his sympathy. Billy is not about to deprive of him his sleep, too. And so, careful as he can, he eases himself off the bad and pads into the hallway.

Billy was never scared of the dark. Even as a child he found the fear unfounded. There were much worse things out there, much more dangerous things. Now, though, he rests a hand against the wall and flicks on light switches the moment he finds them. 

Not in the hall, of course. He keeps the hall dark to keep from waking Steve or Max, whose room is also dark and quiet. When he reaches the bathroom, though, he turns on the lights and he runs the tap and he douses his face in cold water. 

When he closes his eyes, he can feel it. The cold of his nightmare, of that big empty room, the chill that rippled through him when the shadows rose up to grab him. 

Billy gropes blindly for a cloth to dry his face. His heart hammers in his chest. He stumbles backwards until he falls by the tub, and he scrambles to sit on the lip. He grips it so hard his knuckles turn white and he fights to steady his breathing.

_It’s not real_ , he tells himself, and he hates how childlike he sounds. How small, how weak.

Billy throws the washcloth with all the strength he can muster and he swears, “Fuck!” 

There are tears welling in his eyes but Billy won’t them fall. He swallows thickly and wipes his face with the back of his hand. He sucks in his breath. He forces himself to his feet. He combs his fingers through his hair and he sets his shoulders. He goes back into the hall, only shutting the bathroom light off at the last second and shutting the door quickly behind to seal the shadows inside. 

“Billy?”

Billy nearly jumps out of his skin. His heart rockets up into his throat and he presses his back against the wall. Steve holds up his hands- defensive, apologetic -and stops in his tracks.

“Shit,” Billy breaths.

“Sorry,” Steve says. He is bleary-eyed and his voice sounds sleepy. Billy feels a pang of guilt deep in his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up. I thought you heard me.”

Billy drops his gaze. He shakes his head. He murmurs, “It’s fine.”

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. Billy doesn’t answer. Steve reaches for him, puts a hand on his arm, and Billy pulls away. “Hey,” Steve says softly. “Did you have the dream again?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Billy says.

“Might help,” Steve shrugs.

“Go back to bed,” Billy tells him.

“You, too,” Steve says. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Billy shrugs. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Shut up,” Steve says, and this gets Billy to look at him. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Billy insists. 

“I believe you,” Steve says, though Billy knows he doesn’t. Steve touches Billy’s arm again and this Billy lets him, lets Steve’s fingers curl around his bicep, let’s Steve gently tug him away from the wall. “Come on,” he says. 

“Steve,” Billy protests.

“You know I don’t like to sleep alone.”

Billy doesn’t have the energy to fight him. He lets himself be pulled back into the bedroom and guided onto the bed. He rests his back against the wall as Steve curls up beside him, cocooning himself in blankets. He tugs on Billy’s arm until Billy lets himself lay and relax beside him, and Steve rests his head on Billy’s chest. Billy tenses when Steve drapes an arm over his middle, almost jerking away when Steve brushes his scars. He squeezes his eyes shut and Steve squeezes him, reassuring. 

Steve drifts off to sleep, and Billy slowly relaxes into his arms. He rests his hand on Steve’s head, tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair, and counts Steve’s quiet inhales. The wind whistles through the window and pricks goosebumps on Billy’s skin. He starts to fall asleep, too, though never for too long. The shadows creep back him, jerk him awake, and every time he tenses or tries to pull away Steve squeezes him a little bit tighter, as if he can push all the nightmares right out of him. Billy thinks that Steve might actually believe this is possible. He even finds himself hoping that Steve might be right. 


	25. great romances of the 20th century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188270329550/steve-and-billy-chaperoning-the-snowball-and  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy is _not_ amused. He’s not even the slightest bit happy. In fact, if Steve had to take a stab at it, he’d guess- based on the set jaw, the tense muscles, the way he’s refused to make eye contact with Steve for more than a fleeting half second -that Billy is downright pissed. 

“Come on,” Steve tries, but Billy says nothing. He is driving, one hand loosely holding the wheel, his eyes obscured by the thick lenses of the sunglasses he won’t be needed in another fifteen minutes. “It won’t be that bad.”

“I can’t _fucking_ believe I let you _fucking_ talk me into this.” 

“Dustin wants me there!” Steve says, defensive. 

“You let a fucking kid control your life?” 

“Hey!” Max kicks the back of Billy’s seat. “Steve’s being _nice_. You should try it.”

“Shut up, shitbird,” Billy growls.

“Make me, fuckface,” Max snaps.

“Okay! Okay,” Steve says. “Jesus. Both of you just cool it.”

“He started it!” Max says.

“I’m finishing it,” Steve says, wincing at the parental tone he can never quite suppress.

“Jeez, _dad_ ,” Billy says flatly. 

“It’s one night,” Steve says. His attention is on Billy now. He holds up his index finger to drive home the point and repeats, “One. Night. Okay? You’re giving up one stupid Friday night, and it’ll make me happy, and tomorrow we can do whatever you want to do.”

“Gross,” Max quips. 

“Mind out of the gutter,” Steve says, pointing at her. She frowns, huffs, then leans back against her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. Steve turns his attention back to Billy, who has yet to actually look at him since picking him up mere minutes ago. “One night,” he repeats. Billy says nothing, but he does sigh, and Steve considers this a step in the right direction. “It keeps your dad off your back-”

“I thought I told you not to bring that up,” Billy says, an edge to his voice, and Steve backpedals as hard as he can.

“Yeah,” he says, and then, “I’m sorry.” and then, “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Billy says. The edge is dulled. He swings the car into the middle school parking lot and slides into a spot. He doesn’t turn off the engine, but he throws the shift into park and, finally, turns his head toward Steve. “You owe me,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” Steve promises. “Whatever you want.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Max repeats. 

“Gutter,” Steve says. “Mind. Out of.”

“No,” Billy says. “She’s in the ballpark.”

“Billy,” Steve groans at the same time that Max, once gain, kicks her brother’s seat. 

“Get a room,” she says.

“I tried,” Billy says.

“I swear to God,” Steve groans.

“I’m leaving,” Max declares. She swings her door open. “Don’t be gross in there. Please.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Billy says.

Max only rolls her eyes. She slides out of the car and hurries toward the door as if she’s afraid someone will see her with Billy and Steve (and, truth be told, Steve wouldn’t blame her if that was the case). He watches her go, then turns to Billy. He has taken off his sunglasses and is staring at the school, his jaw set, biting his bottom lip. 

“This isn’t, like…the worst thing ever, is it?” Steve says, suddenly nervous without Max there to break the tension. Billy rolls his head toward Steve and sighs deeply. 

“Whatever,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

He gets out of the car without another word, and Steve follows. They do not speak to one another for the length of the dance. Once, Dustin asks him about it (”Not that I want to encourage this shit,” he clarifies, “but what’s up with Hargrove? He hasn’t even looked at you once.” and Steve explains that this is simply not Billy’s _thing_ , and Billy is annoyed at being dragged here, that he’s 99% sure Billy has a flask hidden somewhere in his jacket, that Steve wishes he’d just let Billy stay home - he doesn’t tell Dustin _why_ he’d been so adamant that Billy come, why he didn’t want Billy home alone with Neil Hargrove). 

Nancy, too, takes notice. She says she didn’t think that Billy would show, that Steve must really be wrapped around Billy’s finger, and she asks how things are going between them. Steve doesn’t know how to answer, because he knows that Billy is upset with him. He says that things are good, because aside from tonight they have been. 

Jonathan and Nancy play taxi at the end of the night, each of them piling half the group into their cars to drive them home. Steve double and triple checks that Max is with Jonathan, that she is spending the night at El’s, that Billy won’t have to worry about her - and that his father won’t raise hell. Billy and Steve are left on cleanup duty, sweeping confetti from the floor and stacking folding chairs in neat rows against the wall. 

“Was it really so bad?” Steve asks when Billy’s chilly silence lasts too long. Billy answers with a grunt that could mean yes and could mean no and could mean fuck off. Steve is quite sure which, exactly, it translates to. He sighs and leans his broom against one of the tables Billy has yet to break down. “Hey.” he says, and he takes a folding chair from Billy’s hands.

“What?” Billy asks. 

“Drop the act, man,” Steve says. “Can you relax for, like, five minutes?”

“I already did this fucking chaperone shit for you,” Billy says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “But it is still my night.”

Billy raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I mean, technically,” Steve says. “We said you would do this for me tonight, and _tomorrow_ would be all for you. So, I think that _technically_ , that means I’m still calling the shots.” 

“Oh yeah?” Billy says.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“Well, what the hell else do you want, then?”

“Dance with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Steve says. He holds out his hand, and Billy looks at it like he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to do. He furrows his brow. He glances at Steve’s face, then back down at his hand. “Come on,” Steve says, sing-song. 

“You’re a fucking loser, do you know that?” Billy says, but he takes Steve’s hand and lets himself be led to the middle of the empty gymnasium. “There’s not even any music,” he complains, and then quickly adds, “And _don’t_ say we’ll make our own damn music.”

“You said it for me,” Steve says. He pulls Billy close and begins to sway. 

“I take it back,” Billy says. He moves stiffly with Steve, until Steve yanks him even closer and he lets himself relax, ever slightly into Steve’s embrace. 

“Can’t take it back,” Steve says, that little sing-song tone returning. “Who’s the loser now?”

“Still you,” Billy says. He can’t hide his small smile, though, and seeing it makes Steve smile, too. They move together in slow circles beneath the glittery paper snowflakes they still have to pull down and the painted banners that have started to slip of their own accord. Steve rests his head against Billy’s shoulder, and Billy lets him. He laughs a little when he does and says, “See? Loser.”

“You’re the one dancing with me,” Steve retorts. 

“Yeah,” Billy admits. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend like that.”

“I’m sorry, your what?”

“Cologne fumes get to your brain, Hargrove?” Steve says. “You know what I said.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Billy says. “We’ve just never…said that.”

“But we are, right?” Steve says. “Officially?”

Billy pauses, as if seriously thinking it over, and then he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I think we are.”


	26. quick but not quite painless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188356080090/mind-if-i-request-a-fic-id-like-some-post-season  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve’s car is parked three blocks away. He sat inside, watching the adjacent street until Neil Hargrove’s clunking F-150 rumbled down the road. Steve just caught sight of Billy in the back seat, head propped against the window. Steve imagined him nervous but refusing to admit it, picking at the threads on his jacket the way he does when fixated on some deep worry in his head. Steve counts to ten, allows space for the Hargroves to get away, then walks toward Cherry Lane.

The whole way, he repeats a mantra: _Billy will be okay. Billy will be okay. Billy will be okay._

It’s a routine surgery. He’d hurt his knee a few weeks back. A torn ACL it what the doctor had said, probably the result of taking on too much too soon. He’d just been getting back on his feet, after all. He should have been taking things slow, should have been kind to weakened muscles (near-atrophied, Steve had reminded him, but Billy was stubborn and thick-headed and- perhaps most importantly of all -terrified of the father that watched his ever move). Billy wanted to get Neil off his back, and gain back the independence that Starcourt had stripped away. And then he’d fallen. Hard. Steve won’t dare say _I told you so_. He doesn’t need to. Neil Hargrove had trademarked the phrase. 

The surgery is simple. Billy has said this over and over again. The doctor has done so many he can do it with his eyes closed. This does not quell Steve’s worries. 

Steve rounds the quiet Hargrove house; Billy’s wrecked Camaro sits on cinderblocks out front, a miserable tableau. Steve tries not look at it as he slinks to the backyard and perches himself behind the shrubbery swollen with spring fullness. He crouches behind Susan Mayfield’s budding azaleas and he waits. 

He thinks about Billy in a hospital gown; Billy on a sterile operating table, Billy with wires taped to his chest and a mask fixed over his nose, Billy being told to count backwards from one hundred and succumbing to the anesthesia swirling in his lungs. He tries not to think about the scalpel slicing through Billy’s skin. He tries not to think about the blood. He tries not to think about the last time he saw Billy, small and fragile and pathetic, in a white-walled room with needles in his veins and tubes snaking around him. 

_ He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay. _

Steve repeats this over and over again. He whispers it to himself. He lets the words ring in his head. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and forces himself to repeat those two words again and again until that old Ford comes rattling up the street. 

This should be further proof that everything is okay. The surgery is quick, and Billy does not have to be hospitalize. He gets to come home the very same day. Steve shrinks back into the bushes as the truck swerves hard into the driveway. Steve winces, hoping the rough rocking of the Ford as its thrown into park isn’t jostling Billy too much. 

Neil gets out first, and Max and Susan slide out behind him. Billy is leaning against the passenger door. Susan pulls a pair of crutches from the bed of the truck, but Neil does not take them. He opens Billy’s door and has to catch his son when Billy nearly comes tumbling out. Instead of giving him the crutches, Neil supports Billy himself, and the sight of Neil with his arms around Billy makes Steve’s blood boil. He criticizes every little movement Neil makes. He wants nothing more than to jump out and shove him away, to take Billy from him, to take Billy away. 

Neil, though, it gentler than Steve expected him to be. He even seems to talk to Billy softly, and Billy, woozy from anesthesia that hasn’t completely worn off, lets his father take his weight, lets himself be guided up the front steps and into the house. 

It occurs to Steve, as he watches Neil help Billy inside, that this Billy- groggy, compliant, subdued -is the Billy Neil prefers, the Billy he wants. This makes Steve even angrier. 

Max is the last of the family to go inside. She lingers behind her mother, her eyes on the landscaping. She catches Steve’s eye and, when she does, she gives him a curt nod of her head before she, too, vanishes inside the house. 

Steve, crouching as low as he can get, crawls around toward Billy’s bedroom window. He makes it in time to see Neil ushering Billy inside. Their shadows move in tandem. Neil deposits Billy onto the bed and Susan flutters in behind them, already gathering pillows that she props beneath Billy’s injured leg. Max lingers in the doorway. Steve can just see the top of her head as he tries to hide himself beneath the sill of the window. He watches leave the room, watches Susan give Billy something- a pill, Steve thinks, and then she leaves, too. Max makes her way to the window and undoes the lock. She cracks the window open, just as they planned. 

“Give it a minute,” she whispers so low Steve almost doesn’t hear her. “Just to be safe.”

“How is he?” Steve asks.

“Drugged up,” Max says. She shrugs. “He’s okay.” 

Steve grasps these words like a lifeline. _He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay._ Max leaves, too, and Steve does she told him and waits a full minute before pushing the window open the rest of the way and squeezing inside. 

Billy is dozing. His head is turned toward the window and his hair is messy around his face. Neil had helped him out of his jacket and Susan had pulled a blanket over him. Steve had watched them do it, had ached of the domestic simplicity of all, the kindness that Billy deserved but only got when he was too far gone to notice. 

There are small signs of the surgery still clinging to him: the gummy residue of medical tape stuck to the back of his hand, the imprint of the oxygen mask faint around his mouth, the wad of gauze taped in the crook of his elbow from the IV line. Steve can’t look away from the little white pillow stark against Billy’s skin. It makes him think of the tubes that used to be there, the ballooning bags of fluids that had hung over Billy’s head and filled him with saline and antibiotics. Steve forces an exhale and sits, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. Billy’s eyelids flutter, and Steve winces.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. Billy’s whole body tenses until Steve rests a hand over his. Steve brushes his thumb over the back of Billy’s hand and shushes him quietly. “It’s just me,” he says. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Hi,” Billy says. His voice is low and hoarse. He can’t keep his eyes open, and his head turns toward Steve as they slip shut again. Steve brushes away the hair that falls across Billy’s face.

“Hi,” he says. “You okay?”

“Mmhm,” Billy murmurs. 

“You want me to go?” Steve asks. Billy opens one eye.

“No,” he says, and his eye closes once more. He hooks his thumb with Steve’s and Steve’s heart jumps, remembering just how it felt the first time Billy’s fingers closed over his after Starcourt. Steve had snuck into the hospital to see him, had sat with him for hours, and when he’d told Billy he was going to leave Billy had grabbed onto him as strongly as he could manage. Steve holds his hand now, and he gives a gentle squeeze. Billy squeezes back and his grip is stronger than it had been then. It is almost normal. Steve’s chest begins to uncoil. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks after a few long beats of silence. He thinks that Billy might not answer, that perhaps he has already fallen asleep. He watches the rise and fall of Billy’s chest and is almost startled when Billy shakes his head no.

“S’fine now,” Billy says. 

“Tell me if it stops being fine?” Steve asks. “Okay?”

Again, he thinks that Billy may have fallen asleep. He fights not to let Billy’s silence worry him. He watches Billy’s breathing, listens to the soft sighs of his ever exhale, and only lets out his own breath when Billy says, “Okay.”


	27. slow dance on the inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188399010165/i-have-a-request-if-you-have-time-its-after  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve doesn’t want to fall asleep. 

He is still afraid; not of the sleeping, per se, and not even of the dreams it invites into his head. He is afraid of the waking; he is afraid of blinking against the golden morning sun to find the bed empty, afraid to find out this has all been some kind of elaborate figment of his desperate mind. He is afraid to find out that Billy is really gone, that the doctors couldn’t save him, that his world has grown smaller since the summer of eight-five. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Billy asks, and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin. He quells his surprise as best as he can and he props his chin on Billy’s chest. He does not lean his weight on Billy fully. Every muscle hovers just-slightly above Billy, afraid to hurt him, mindful of every still-healing bruise and scrape and scar.

“Nothing,” he says. 

“Nothing?” Billy asks. 

“Just-” Steve starts, and then he sighs. Billy’s fingers sweep absently along his spine and Steve closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of being touched by hands he feared might never reach for him again. He nestles closer to Billy, looks down at Billy’s chest, kisses the pink arc of his scars. Billy’s arms close tighter around him and force Steve flush against Billy’s body. Steve tenses, and on instinct he tries to pull away.

“I’m not gonna break, you know,” Billy says. Steve stills.

“I know,” he says eventually, voice small. Again, he sighs, and this time he rests his head against Billy’s chest. Billy’s hand wanders up his back and his fingers tangle in Steve’s hair. Steve listens to the strong beat of Billy’s heart, the steady drumbeat of a lifeline too stubborn to break. Without a thought, Steve softly says, “I love you.” 

He thinks that Billy doesn’t hear him. He thinks that he’s spoken too quietly, that his words have been muffled. Steve can see small goosebumps prickling Billy’s skin where his own breath fell. He waits. He listens to Billy’s heartbeat. He thinks that Billy has fallen asleep, convinces himself so thoroughly that when Billy does speak Steve almost startles again.

“I love you, too,” Billy murmurs suddenly. Steve smiles, mostly to himself. He moves so that his head is tucked beneath Billy’s chin and tightens his arms ever-so-slightly around Billy’s middle. He breathes the room smells like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne- like Billy. He wants to soak it in, wants it absorb everything about this moment: Billy, sleepy and soft, tasting of salt with his hair all a mess; Billy with his hands in Steve’s hair, trailing down Steve’s back, the rough callouses betraying his gentle touch; Billy, who shudders when Steve touches his scars but lets him kiss them all the same; Billy, alive and well, drifting off to sleep in the rare sliver of silence granted by absent parents and busy sisters. 

Steve knows, now, when Billy really falls asleep. His breath changes. It slows, and evens into the quietest whistle escaping his parted lips. Steve tilts his head up to look at Billy. He gentle brushes his thumb over Billy’s jaw, traces down his throat and to his chest, feels the realness of him. He reminds himself that this is real. That they are safe. He thinks about Billy saying that he loves Steve and he reminds himself that this was real, too. All of it is happening. It won’t go away. 

Steve rests his head against Billy’s chest. Slowly, he falls asleep. 


	28. this is all now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188419960680/i-have-a-request-steve-and-billy-go-out-on-a  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

“Is anybody seeing what I’m seeing?” Dustin asks. He is all but gawking down the rows of theater seats. His friends all seem to engrossed in their own conversations (Lucas and Max have carried an argument in with them, Mike was explaining the premise of the movie to Eleven while she helped Will pass bags of candy he’d stuffed into his backpack). Dustin, seated at the center of the cases, looks one way and then the other and lets out a long and exasperated sigh. “Are you shitting me?” he asks, and he jabs his elbow hard into Max’s ribs.

“Ow!” she yells. “What the shit, Dustin?”

“Isn’t that your brother down there?” He points and Max looks down the rows to where Billy is reaching for popcorn from the oversized tub in Steve Harrington’s lap. He says something that makes Steve nudge him away, and then they both laugh. 

“What the hell is Billy doing here?” Lucas asks. 

“ _With_ Steve?” asks Mike.

“Don’t they hate each other?” asks Will. 

Their questions ring in Max’s ears. She feels something sink down into her gut. She can feel everyone watching her. From Dustin’s other side, El catches her eye. She glances down to where Dustin had pointed and then back to Max. Max leans as far back into her seat as she can and tries not to look at Billy and Steve.

“Are they friends now?” Lucas asks. 

“Did you know about this?” Dustin asks.

“You didn’t know either,” Max grumbles. 

“I don’t live with Steve!” Dustin says.

“Billy,” El says, “doesn’t tell Max anything. …Right?”

“Right,” Max says. 

“What does it matter, anyway?” Will asks. “So they’re seeing a movie.”

“Steve’s fraternizing with the enemy!” Dustin exclaims.

“Enemy?” El asks. 

“He’s _not_ that bad,” Max mumbles. 

“Steve’s got a screw loose,” Lucas says.

“He’s got to,” says Mike.

“Let it go,” Max says. Luckily for her, the lights begin to dim and sound swells in from the speakers. She sinks down in her chair and breathes a sigh of relief as the screen is filled with a two hour distraction that quiets her friends - for now. She can’t help herself from glancing over all the shadows of all the heads in front of her, watching as Steve and Billy take advantage of the dark and praying that no one else sees the way Steve’s grabs for Billy’s hand, or that Billy lets him, and praying the whole time that Billy won’t kill her when the movie lets out. 

—

Billy drops Steve’s hand when the lights come on. 

Steve tries not to take offense. They are, after all, on an actual date that he’d all but begged Billy for. He missed dates, he’d told Billy. He wanted one night where they weren’t sneaking around someone’s parents or getting wasted at some party. He wanted a real date, and it had taken him days to get Billy to finally cave. And he knew that public displays wouldn’t happen. They most public they’ve gotten was making out in the dark, empty parking lot behind the gas station, and even then- drunk as he was -Billy had triple checked that the station was closed and that no cars were frequenting the roads around them. But still, it’s hard not to feel a pang in his chest when something as simple as a light has Billy shoving him away. 

“You good?” Steve asks him. The people around them have already started to rise. Billy joins them, still licking butter and salt from his fingers. 

“I gotta piss,” he says.

“Thanks for the update,” Steve says flatly. “I’ll meet you outside?”

“Sure.” They exit the theater together, and Steve joins the crowd as it funnels the doors while Billy breaks off toward the bathrooms. Steve barely sets foot on the pavement before he hears his name called out from behind. 

“Shit,” he groans, inwardly cringing and wishing on every damn star in the sky that Dustin will be gone by the time Billy comes out. He turns around and finds that Dustin is not alone. The whole group is a few steps behind him. At the very back, lingering with purpose, is Max. She catches Steve’s eye over the heads of the others and she mouths a silent apology. “What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“What’s up?” Dustin repeats. “What’s up?”

“You’re riled,” Steve says.

“You have some explaining to do,” Lucas declares.

“Guys, it’s not that big a deal,” Will insists. 

“They were just…watching the movie,” El says. “Like us.” 

“He was watching a movie with the guy that beat the _shit_ out of him,” Mike says.

“Okay, alright,” Steve says, holding up his hands to stop the onslaught. “Listen, Dustin, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, man, okay? I’m busy right now.”

“Busy with Billy Hargrove?” Lucas asks.

“Yeah, what the hell are you guys doing?” Dustin asks. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Steve insists. 

“Not a big deal?” Dustin asks.

“He nearly killed you!” says Lucas. 

“What the hell’s going on?” 

Half a dozen heads turn to face Billy. He looks both confused and a little bit angry, though most might consider anger his default. His brow is furrowed as he looks at each of the kids in turn, and then he meets Steve’s eyes over all of their heads. He is met with silence, which only aggravates that already-angry parts of him. 

“Well?” he presses.

“Billy-” Steve starts, but the dropping of those two syllables sets a chain reaction throughout the group. Max shrinks back, El and Will flanking her sides as Mike, Dustin, and Lucas launch on Billy. 

“What are you doing here?” Mike demands.

“What are you doing _with Steve_?” asks Lucas. 

“We saw you in there,” Dustin says. 

Billy answers none of their questions. His eyes grow harder with each word slung his way. He’s fuming when he looks at Steve. “Billy, I didn’t-” Steve starts, but Billy cuts him off with a shake of his head. He pushes past the kids and makes a point of knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he moves past him, too. “Billy,” Steve says.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dustin asks. Steve ignores him. He follows after Billy for one, two, three steps before he’s able to grab hold of Billy’s wrist and stop him.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low so that the kids won’t hear him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No?” Billy asks gruffly. 

“No,” Steve says.

“Then what the fuck’s with the inquisition?”

“The inqui-wha?” Billy rolls his eyes. He tries to pull away, but Steve tightens his grip.

“He didn’t say anything,” Max says. Billy rounds on her, but she stands her ground. She sets her jaw, juts up her chin, and she repeats, “Steve didn’t say anything. Don’t be mad at him.”

“Max didn’t say anything either,” Will says.

“Don’t be mad,” El says.

“Does anybody _want_ to say anything?” Dustin asks. 

“No,” Billy snaps.

“Billy,” Max says.

“You stay the fuck out of this,” Billy tells her.

“Billy,” Steve says, and he tightens his grip around Billy’s wrist. Billy stares at him. 

“I’m leaving,” he says.

“Billy,” Steve says again, and once again Billy tries to pull away and Steve holds on to him as tightly as he can. Billy makes it a few steps, dragging Steve behind him, before he stops again. 

“Let me go,” Billy demands.

“I’m your ride,” Steve says.

“I’ll walk,” Billy says.

“You guys drove here together?” Dustin asks. 

“Let it go,” Max says.

“Is this, like, a date?” Mike asks. 

Steve looks at Billy. Billy looks angrier than ever. He sets his jaw. He shakes his head. Steve sighs and he says, “Yes.” 

There is a stunned beat of silence following that single syllable. Then, Billy rips his hand away, and this time Steve doesn’t fight. He steps backwards. He looks hurt, and Steve feels his heart sink. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his words lost beneath the din of the kids’ rebounding questions. Billy shakes his head. 

“It’s a _date_?” Dustin says.

“You’re dating,” Lucas says flatly. 

“Did you know?” Will whispers to Max, who shrugs her shoulders in a maybe that can’t mean anything other than _yes_. El takes Max’s hand and squeezes. Around them, the others are still assaulting Steve with questions. Billy steps slowly backwards. He looks like he’s been struck.

“Okay, you know what?” Steve says suddenly. “Enough. Enough, okay? I don’t need this from you.” Here, he points directly at Dustin, who stops talking mid-sentence and takes on stumbling step backwards. “I don’t ned this from any of you,” Steve says, pointing at each of them. “Okay? This has nothing to do with any of you. This has to do with me-” He points to his own chest, “-and him,” he says, pointing to Billy. 

“Steve,” Billy says. 

“You guys can ask me all the questions you want later,” he says. “But I spend days getting this asshole to actually go on a real date, and convincing him wasn’t easy, and I don’t need to stand here and be harassed by all of you. I just wanted one night out, okay? One night out, because I love him and I want to be with him and I missed, like, normal dating shit that he hates but he’s doing because I begged him to and I just _don’t need this_.” 

Again, Steve is met with stunned silence. Then, the first domino tips.

“You what?” Dustin says.

“Did you just-” Max starts.

“Steve,” Billy says again. 

“What?” Steve asks.

“You just-” starts will.

“You said you love him,” says El. Steve glances at her, and then he looks at all the shocked faces staring at him until he once again lands on Billy. 

“I-” he says, but he doesn’t know what words are supposed to come next. This isn’t exactly how he’d planned to tell Billy that he loves him. In fact, he hadn’t finished planning quite how that would go. “Uh,” he stammers. The silence that follows stretches tense around him and Steve wants nothing more than to break that taught thread. “Well, I do,” he says. “I love you.” 

He hopes that this will diffuse that tension, but it doesn’t. It does get Billy to move though. Not right away. He stands there, looking less hurt and more confused. Then a determination comes over him. It creeps up in his eyes and puffs out his chest. He steps forward, one hand reaching for Steve, He takes the back of Steve’s head and he draws him in for a kiss. 

When they break apart, the tension is gone, but the silence remains. The kids are staring a them with wide eyes and gaping mouths (except for Max, who is fighting to hide her smile). Billy looks at them all in turn. He takes Steve’s hand and laces their fingers together. 

“Max,” he says, and she covers her mouth with her hand so that he won’t see her stifled smile. “Find another way home.”

“Forget it,” she says. “I’ll stay at El’s.” 

Billy accepts this with a nod. He gives each of them one last glance before turning and pulling Steve with him. Steve can feel the kids’ eyes burning holes in his back, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the interrogation he’s sure to get from them tomorrow. He doesn’t care about how many times he’ll have to defend Billy to them. He doesn’t care about any of it. None of it matters. Because Billy is holding his hand. 


	29. error: operator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188486378140/can-you-do-one-where-steve-has-a-panic-attack  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

It starts slow, as most things do.

Steve is fidgety - more so than usual. Billy tries to ignore it. He pretends he doesn’t see. He slouches at the back of the classroom, absently chewing at the worn-down stub of his pencil and certainly not paying attention to the way Steve taps his own against his desk. He acts like he doesn’t see Steve slip down in his seat, straighten back up, cross and uncross his legs. He tries to train his gaze out the window and definitely doesn’t let himself look at Steve’s reflection and certainly doesn’t take notice when Steve suddenly bolts out of his seat and out of the room. 

Mr. Young’s lecture on redox reactions fades into one long, monotonous drone as Billy finds his attention drawn to the white-faced clock mounted above the chalkboard. A minute passes, and then another, and then five and ten go by and still Steve Harrington has not returned. His chair sits vacant against the far wall, his notebook open and without a word written down, his textbook open to a page they’ve moved past. 

If anyone asks why Billy suddenly rises, suddenly leaves the room after fifteen minutes have passed, he’d tell them it’s because he was bored. He needs to stretch his legs. He wants to sneak out for a smoke. He has a million excuses at the ready, and none of them involve checking on Steve. 

Running into Steve in the bathroom is a coincidence. Billy certainly hasn’t sought him out. 

It’s not as if Billy saw Steve’s sneakers in one of the bathroom stalls. It’s not like he stood at the bank of sinks, pretending to wash his hands while watching the stall door behind him through the mirror. 

Steve startles when he emerges to see Billy standing there. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“You good, man?” Billy asks.

“I’m not in the mood,” Steve tells him harshly.

“Jesus, fuck,” Billy says. “I just asked a question.”

“Don’t start,” Steve says. “Please.”

“What am I starting?” Billy asks. Steve says nothing. He only shakes his head and turns on a faucet three sinks down from Billy. Billy watches his profile, catches the the way Steve’s breath comes out in shaky, ragged huffs and the way Steve periodically holds his breath to stave off its wavering. He sees Steve’s tremble below the flow of water and sees those tremors reach up his arms and cause his shoulders to awkwardly jerk. Steve tenses his muscles to try and stop them and Billy notices that, too. His brow creases.

“Seriously,” he says. “You good?”

“Fuck off, Hargrove,” Steve says. He turns off the water a bit too aggressively and the handle leaves a red imprint on his palm. Steve shakes his hand and grabs for a paper towel. This, too, he does with too much vigor and winds up pulling out a wad of flimsy brown napkins. “Fuck!” he says, balling the towels up in his fist and throwing them into the sink. He leans over the sink, his chest trembling, and he grabs the lip of the sink with both hands. He holds on so tight his knuckles go white.

“Hey,” Billy says, tone quiet and soft. “I’m not fucking with you, man. What’s going on?”

“I don’t-” Steve says, but his voice gets stuck in his throat. He makes a small coughing sound and shakes his head. “I don’t-” he tries again, but he still can’t get the words out. 

“Harrington,” Billy says. Steve holds the sink even tighter. “Hey,” Billy says again. He gently touches Steve’s shoulder- a soft touch at first, barely there, and then he grips Steve’s arm when Steve doesn’t shake him off. “Breathe. You’re gonna pass out.”

The bathroom door opens, and Billy’s head jerks up. Steve doesn’t look up at all. The tiny freshman standing in the doorway freezes. Billy says, “Get out.” and, when the boy doesn’t move, he says, “Read the fucking room, shithead.” Shocked into motion, the boy backs out of the room, the door swinging on its hinges behind him. 

“What’s your deal?” Steve asks after a few long beats of silence. His voice is almost back to normal, but he still looks paler than he should and there is still a slight shudder running up and down his spine.

“My deal?” Billy asks.

“You’re being, like-” Steve searches for the right word; he lands on, “not a douche.”

“I do have multiple facets,” Billy says.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Just keep breathing,” Billy says. 

“What the fuck-”

“In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

“Who even are you right now?” Steve asks.

“Breathe,” Billy says. Steve wants to ask more questions, but Billy’s hand is firm on his shoulder and the other has landed on his back. Billy holds him steady and Steve listens to him. He breathes the way Billy tells him to, lets Billy count out his inhales and his exhales: “Four in. There you go. Four out. That’s it.” A minute passes like this and, when Steve is no longer trembling, Billy claps him on the back. “Better?” he asks.

“Uh. Yeah?” Billy drops his hands and Steve pretends he does not miss their weight. He steps away from the sink, puts enough distance between himself and Billy that he can look Billy up and down. “What the hell was that?”

“You’ve never had a panic attack before?”

“No,” Steve says. “I mean, not that. What the hell is up with you?”

“Bored,” Billy shrugs. 

“Bored?” Steve repeats. 

“Yup,” Billy says. “And you were gone for, like, fifteen minutes.”

“You keeping tabs on me?”

“I’m observant.” Billy checks his watch. “And now it’s twenty minutes. Just over. We should head back.”

“We-” Steve starts.

“Young’ll think we snuck off to suck face or some shit.”

Again, Steve stammers, “We-”

“Look alive, Harrington,” Billy says. He claps Steve’s shoulder, and his hand lingers there when he sees Steve staring at him like he’s sprouted additional heads. “Hey, seriously. You’re good. Yeah?” 

“I-” Steve stutters. He swallows thickly. He shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I just- it came out of nowhere, I guess. I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s sort of how they work,” Billy says. “Just breathe through ‘em. You’ll be fine.” He gives Steve’s shoulder one last squeeze before stepping away and taking long strides toward the door. 

“Wait a minute,” Steve says as Billy begins to pick the door open. Billy stops and steps backwards back into the room. He turns to Steve with a brow raised. “How do you know so much about this shit?”

“I get ‘em,” Billy says plainly. “You learn to deal.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He wants to say something else, something more, then just says, “Okay.”

Billy watches him expectantly, as if he is waiting for Steve to say more. When he doesn’t, Billy says, “Okay. See you in class.” 

“Right,” Steve says. This time, when Billy opens the door, Steve lets him go, watching him walk away until the door swings shut and blocks the view. 


	30. relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188509233605/i-hate-cough-syrup-i-hate-you-coughing-all  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve is half-dozing, his head leaned against the cool car window, when something strikes his leg. He startles and blinks blearily until Billy comes into focus. He drops into the driver’s seat and the radio roars to life when he turns the key in the ignition.

“I thought you were getting cigarettes,” Steve says. He lifts the object that had hit him: a small white paper bag with _Melvald’s General Store_ stamped in blue across the front. It is heavy for its size, and Steve lets it fall onto his lap. 

“I did,” Billy says, and it is then that Steve realizes that Billy is already smoking. A fresh Marlboro dangles from his lips. Billy pinches it between his fingers and uses it to point at the bag. “That’s for you,” he says. 

Smoke from Billy’s cigarette wafts around Steve’s head. It tickles his throat and drifts up his nose and makes him cough. What starts as a single, isolated cough turns into a fit that makes Billy frown. He rolls down his window and exhales a long smoky breath into the wind. The sudden rush of air makes Steve shiver. Billy seems to notice this, too, and he flicks his cigarette into the street and rolls the window back up. 

“What the hell is this?” Steve asks. He holds up a small white and red box. 

“You _can_ read, can’t you, Harrington?” Billy quips.

“I hate cough syrup,” Steve complains. 

“Yeah, well, I hate being coughed on,” Billy says. “What’s your solution?”

“I haven’t coughed _on_ you,” Steve says. As if on cue, he coughs. 

“You’re getting real damn close,” Billy says. 

“I’m fine,” says Steve. 

“Bullshit,” says Billy. 

“I am,” Steve protests.

“You’re talking to the king of _I’m fine_ ,” Billy says. “Can’t pull that shit with me.” 

He pulls up in the Harringtons’ driveway. The house is empty for the week, with Steve’s father gone to a conference and his mother off visiting some sick aunt so many times removed that she swears Steve met at some family function that he doesn’t recall going to because he’s almost positive he had been an infant. Billy gets out of the car, and he is already at the passenger door when Steve opens it. 

“You gonna carry me or something?”

“Don’t think I won’t,” Billy says, but instead he offers a hand which Steve reluctantly takes. Steve attempts to break free, to step away and prove that he can walk on his own, thank you very much, but his feet seem to have other plans. He can’t quite keep them beneath himself and he stumbles and falls against Billy’s chest. His cheeks flush red when Billy laughs. “Relax,” Billy says, securing an arm around Steve’s middle and supporting him up the front steps of the house. “We’ll save the fireman’s carry for more dire circumstances.”

“I hate you,” Steve grumbles, and then he coughs.

“Mhmm,” Billy says. He helps Steve into the house. They shuffle into the living room together, where Billy eases Steve onto the couch. He takes the paper pharmacy bag from him and fishes out the cough syrup. He also produces a small bottle of Tylenol, a can of Coke, and an extra pack of cigarettes which he pockets for himself. He sits on the coffee table so that he is opposite Steve and he quietly observes Steve, who has curled into the cushions and his eyes half-closed. Billy gently touches the back of his head to Steve’s forehead. Steve shudders. “Shh,” Billy soothes.

“Your hands are cold,” Steve says.

“You’re warm,” Billy tells him.

“You mean hot,” Steve says with a small smirk.

“Sure,” Billy concedes. “That, too.” He drops his hand, and Steve lets out a little whine. “Okay,” Billy says. He cracks open the bottle of cough syrup. “Come on,” he says. 

“Billy, please,” Steve murmurs pathetically. Billy pours a dose of the syrup into the little plastic cup. “I don’t need it,” Steve insists, but his body betrays him and coughs again. He groans when he is finished, and looks up at Billy. “See?” he says unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

“Humor me,” Billy says flatly. He holds out the cup. Steve frowns at it. When Billy doesn’t relent, Steve takes the cup from him. “Do it like a shot,” Billy tells him. He pops the tab on the Coke can and holds it out to Billy. “Chase it with this.” 

Steve takes the soda. He frowns, looks at the medicine, looks at Billy, looks back at the medicine. Finally, he downs the cough syrup. He winces, and begins coughing. Billy takes the cup from him and moves to sit beside him. He takes Steve hand, the one holding the soda can, and guides him to drink. Steve takes a few sips and then he hands the can to Billy, who places it on the coffee table. Instinctively, Steve curls toward Billy. He exhales and rests his head against Billy’s chest. Billy rubs small, soothing circles over Steve’s back and Steve uncoils toward him. 

“That sucked,” Steve says eventually. Even so, he nestles closer to Billy.

Billy smiles. He says, “You’ll thank me later.”


	31. light my way back home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188622012030/could-you-write-a-fic-when-its-like-the-4th-of  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

It seems natural for them to all be together.

Steve’s house was as good a place as any. The kids sit around the pool, their feet dangling in the water as they swap melting popsicles and argue over the ending of a D&D campaign they’d finished last week. Nancy and Jonathan sit together on a lounge chair, a tangle of limbs, talking softly amongst themselves, each vigilantly sneaking peeks at their siblings as if their safety may at any moment be jeopardized. Robin lays on the diving board, fingertips grazing the water, interjecting into the kids’ conversation when she sees fit. She glances up when Steve emerges from the house, one eyebrow raised. He hands her one of the three beers he is balancing and she cracks it open against the board. 

“All good?” she asks him, though her eyes are on Billy. He sits in a lounge chair at the far end of the pool, well away from the others. He wears one of Steve’s _Hawkins_ sweatshirts, terrycloth light enough not to overheat him but thick enough to hide his scares. An unlit cigarette sits between tense lips. He reacts to every small sound- the splash of the pool water, the slamming car doors out on the street, the cheers coming periodically from the neighbor’s own backyard party. 

“Ask me tomorrow,” Steve says.

“I will,” she says. “But I’m asking now, too.” She raises her beer toward the two left in Steve’s hands. “Scoops Troop solidarity.” 

“Right,” Steve murmurs absently. He clinks one of the two remaining bottles against Robin’s. Across the yard, he sees Billy jump at the sound. “I should check on him,” Steve says.

Steve crosses the yard. Billy watches him approach. He pinches his cigarette, still unsmoked, between his fingers and fiddles with it - a nervous habit, one that’s cropped up in the 365 days since Starcourt. He has gotten jittery. He is always on edge. When he is close enough, Steve holds out one of the beers as an offering. Billy accepts it but, as with his cigarette, he does not indulge. 

“You okay?” Steve asks. Billy folds his legs when Steve sits at the foot of the long chair.

“Fine,” Billy murmurs. 

“If this is too much-” Steve starts, but Billy is quick to cut him off.

“It’s fine,” he snaps. Steve falls silent. Billy keeps his head down, eyes on the bottle in his lap. He traces condensation over the Miller’s logo. Steve sighs. He looks across the pool to where Max sits between Lucas and El. Her friends all talk around her but Steve catches her eye when it wanders toward Billy. She gives an awkward sort of smile when she sees him looking, and Steve gives the smallest nod of his head. _We’re in this together_ , he hopes she understands. _We’ll keep him together_. He breathes out a long, slow exhale. He rests a hand on Billy’s knee. Billy startles, but he does not pull away. This is progress - for weeks, even months, Billy would not even let Steve touch him. This, at least, is a start. 

They sit quietly for a time and, for that time, things almost feel normal. Yes, Billy is much quieter than he used to be, but he lets Steve trace his thumb over his shin and, in fact, even seems to relax beneath Steve’s touch. Steve sips at his beer and watches the others unwind and relax under the cover of the dark. The couples all fold into one another- Lucas and Max, Mike and Eleven. 

The first firework is nothing more than a distant whistle; there is no explosion, no burst of color, but Steve feels Billy’s muscles tighten and tense at the sound. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly, but he is too quiet to be heard over the loud bang of the second attempt. It soars into the air and cracks so loud Steve thinks it might just split the sky in half. It is followed by the loud crash of breaking glass and a gruff, angry expletive. Steve jumps up with Billy. “Hey,” he says again. “Hey, hey, hey.”

Billy’s hands go to his head, palms flush against his ears, and folds at his waist as though trying to make himself smaller. He screams, and if the breaking of the beer bottle glass didn’t demand everyone’s attention, this certainly does. Max jumped to her feet. Robin does, too. Steve edges closer to Billy, who is pacing back and forth across the short distance of the narrow pool deck. He shudders when Steve’s hands grasp his shoulders. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “Hey, come on, man, you’re okay,” he says. He maneuvers himself at Billy’s back in an attempt to shield him from the watch full eyes of the others. Max, even as she steps toward them, keeps one hand stretched behind her to hold the others back. Robin is the only one to defy her, and the two move to flank Steve on either side. 

Max takes her brother’s arm as gently as she can. 

“Billy?” she says. He doesn’t pull away from her; in fact, Steve thinks he feels Billy lean into her touch. Two more fireworks pop and scatter their reds, whites, and blues across the sky. Billy shouts again, doubling over and nearly falling if not for Steve and Max holding him up. His body shakes all over, and he swears under his breath. 

“Get him inside,” Robin says, already guiding Steve towards the door. 

Nancy and Jonathan move in the opposite direction, toward the scene, each of them instructing the kids to stay put as they set about gathering up the broken glass. There is a commotion behind them that the sliding glass doors swallow up and diffuse when Robin shuts them. Steve guides Billy to the couch and Max perches herself on the coffee table so that she is from of him. Billy’s hands still cover his hears, and Max places hers over them.

“Billy,” she says, voice stern but calm. “Look at me, Billy.”

Steve sits down beside Billy, one hand on Billy’s back and the other on his thigh, holding on as if Billy might disappear if he doesn’t. 

“Look at me,” Max says again, and Billy lifts his head toward her. “Breathe,” she tells him, and she shows him how. He follows her, but when the muffled pop of a firework sounds outside he tenses and growls and drops his gaze. “Billy,” Max says firmly. Her hands slide to his wrists and squeeze. Billy tears his arms away and drops them into his lap, but he does look back up to Max. “You’re safe,” she tells him. 

“Maybe you should take him upstairs,” Robin says. She stands with her back to the door, blocking anyone from seeing inside. “Get some distance.” 

“Blast some music,” Max suggests. 

“Billy?” Steve says. Billy doesn’t look at him, but he asks, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

There is a pause in which Billy shudders at the whistle of other dud of a firework outside. Steve holds onto him tighter, praying that this is enough to ground him. Billy nods. 

“Okay,” Steve says, and they rise together, Billy letting Steve guide him. He is still trembling, though he fights not to, and Steve tries to hide how much this breaks his heart. “I got him,” he tells Robin and Max.

“We’ll hold down the fort,” Robin says. She slips back outside rather quickly. Max lingers for a moment. 

“Your bedroom faces the backyard?” she asks, and Steve nods. “Flash the light if you need help. Just…don’t leave him alone.” 

In the bedroom, Steve draws the curtain closed. He presses play on the stereo without worrying about what cassette might be left inside. He sits Billy on the bed. Billy grabs for him, catches Steve’s wrist, and Steve lowers himself beside him. He curls one arm around Billy’s shoulders and lets Billy’s head rest against his chest. 

“What can I do?” Steve asks. Billy doesn’t answer. He jerks at all the muffled firework sounds outside and each time he does Steve nudges the volume knob up a notch. Steve lets Billy be quiet. He stays quiet, too. They sit together and Steve raises the volume until they can no longer hear the fireworks cracking. Billy’s body still trembles, little shudders run up his spine, and he presses his head against Steve’s chest. Steve holds him there. Even rocks him. Lets him sit. Lets him be. Eventually, when much time as past, Steve says, “I’m sorry.” 

Again, Billy says nothing.

Steve says, “I didn’t think- um, about what it was like…for you. The fireworks-”

“Don’t,” Billy says. His voice is rough and raw and when he clears his throat it sounds like rocks rattling around inside. 

“I should’ve-” Steve starts.

“Shut up,” Billy says harshly. Steve’s heart sinks. Billy says, “Just fucking stop. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. He rests a hand at the back of Billy’s head, buries his fingers in his hair. Billy nestles closer to him and breathes a long sigh. He is exhausted- Steve can feel this in his weight, how he grows heavier the harder he leans against Steve. Steve holds him steady, and he squeezes Billy each time he hears a rogue firework break through the cassette tape tracks. “You’re okay,” Steve tells him. “I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re safe.”


	32. we don't go in there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/188780688525/steve-asking-billy-please-dont-let-me-die-mid  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve talks in his sleep.

It has happened since he was a child. He can carry full conversations that, upon waking, he cannot recall. His dreams seep through such speech. They drop onto his tongue and escape his mouth between sleepy sighs and his fitful tossing and turning. He has always been a restless sleeper. His mother said he had too much energy for his body to contain. He could not spend it all on daylight; the rest leaked out at night. 

Billy had been thrown off at first. He’d struggled to find the dividing line between Steve’s wakefulness and sleep. He’d get angry when Steve didn’t remember talking to him the night before, or when he would answer Steve’s questions only to be ignored. Steve’s sleep-talking would rouse Billy, making him more exhausted by morning than he had been when they’d laid down to sleep. Now, though, he has grown used to it. He has figured out the nuances. He no longer wakes with a start when Steve bumps him in his sleep, or mutters something in a groggy haze. It is part of what makes Steve, Steve. 

Tonight, though, Billy is woken by a sharp kick. The pain of it shoots up his side and he wakes with a groan, curling to protect himself. “The fuck, Harrington?” he murmurs. 

Billy blinks until the shadows turn to shapes, and the shapes into objects: the curtains, the nightstand lamp, Steve’s head against the pillow beside him. Steve is more restless than usually. He rolls over and throws his arm out. The back of his hand collides with Billy’s cheek.

“Jesus,” Billy says, shoving him away. Through bleary eyes, Billy can see that the clock reads three fifteen- an ungodly ever had Billy had ever known one. He closes his eyes again, but a soft whimper from Steve stops him from sleeping. Billy opens one eye. Steve head is turned toward him. His lips are parted. His breath is quick. Billy lifts his head, awake now. “Hey,” he whispers. He nudges Steve. Steve’s breath hitches. He whines, and his eyes squeeze shut tighter. He murmurs something that Billy can’t make out. “Harrington,” Billy says. 

He nudges Steve again, and this time Steve almost yelps. He curls onto his side, arms around his middle, and he murmurs, “Please.”

“Hey,” Billy says again. He tries to nudge Steve a third time but Steve rolls suddenly over and, in the process, kicks Billy in the knee. Billy bites his tongue, tries not to swear, and he grabs Steve’s shoulder. Steve shudders at his touch. 

“ _Please don’t let me die_ ,” he says, and Billy lets him go. His heart sinks into the deepest pit of his stomach. He is still and stunning for one second, two, three. Steve is shivering all over. It’s like he’s been thrown out into the cold, frozen into a block of ice. His back is to Billy now and Billy sidles against it. Steve tenses when Billy wraps his arms about his middle. 

“Shh,” he soothes. His breath falls against Steve’s neck and this, at least, seems to calm him. Steve’s trembling subsides; it turns to small ripples periodically running up his spine. Billy holds Steve firm against him. Steve whimpers, and Billy tells him, “I got you.” 

He feels Steve’s breath change. The rapid sharpness morphs to a sudden sigh. 

“B-Billy?” Steve says. He is awake- Billy can tell by his tone, by the clarity in his voice. 

“I got you,” he repeats. His lips brush against Steve’s skin when he speaks and he feels Steve lean back against him. “I got you,” he says again, burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. 

“It…It was a bad one,” Steve says. His voice is not quite sad, but edges there. 

“I know,” Billy says. 

“I thought-” Steve starts, and then trails off. A few months ago Billy made a game of Steve’s sleep-talking. When it would wake him, he would try to guess what Steve was dreaming about. In the morning, he would tease Steve with his guesses, always fishing to find out which was right. Tonight, though, he doesn’t want to play. He doesn’t want to think about what had terrified Steve so deeply. He doesn’t want to wonder about made him think he’d die- what would make him think that Billy would let him die. He squeezes Steve tighter. He breathes deeply, and the tickle of his exhale sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. 

“I know,” Billy says, even though he doesn’t. He can connect the dots, of course. He gets the idea. One of Steve’s hands lands on Billy’s arm. Steve holds onto him, and again Billy squeezes. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, right?” When Steve remains silent, Billy says, “Steve?”

Steve is quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “I know.”

“Go back to sleep,” Billy tells him. “You’re safe.” 

And though Steve does not fall back to sleep, he does let Billy hold him. He melts into Billy’s embrace, feels Billy’s eyelashes flutter against his neck, feels his breath hot and soothing on his skin. He counts Billy’s breaths as it evens into sleep. He hears Billy’s words in his ears. _I got you_ , Billy had said, repetitive and insistent. _You’re safe._

As Steve lays there, he lets his eyes close. He listens to the soft whistle of Billy’s breathing. He holds Billy’s arms against his own middle and he whispers, “I know.”


	33. sacred heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189031276120/may-i-request-a-fic-please-post-season-3-billy  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Billy is different now. 

Steve tries not to think about this. He tries not to focus on it. He pretends he doesn’t notice, but sometimes he simply cannot help himself, and he knows that Billy sees him staring at the bony knots of his spine and the way his ribs jut out from beneath his skin. He knows that Billy has seen him eyeing the scars raised angry and red all down his back and up his sides and slashed across his middle. Billy knows, too, that Steve hovers behind him each time he gets up, fearful that Billy might fall on shaky legs still learning how to bear his weight. He knows that Steve watches him, studies him, searches for signs of fatigue or of pain and, when he finds them, he tries to find subtle ways to fix them. “Let’s go for a drive,” means he thinks that Billy is tired, and “I’m exhausted, let’s just lay down,” means he thinks Billy must be hurting. Billy knows all of this, but he does not say anything about it, and neither does Steve.

Tonight, they have the Harrington house to themselves. Because Billy still needs help bathing, Steve has accompanied him to the bathroom. He had started to draw a bath, but Billy insists on a shower. Steve double and triple checks that the non-slip treads are secure on the floor of tub before he runs the water. Steve helps Billy undress, carefully peeling off his shirt and letting Billy leans on him as he steps out of his jeans. 

Steve’s touches are brief and fleeting. This is another thing that Billy notices. His hands do not linger anywhere to long. His fingers snap away when they light on the protrusion of a bone or hit the raised edge of a scar. Billy pretends that this does not bother him; he bites his tongue each time Steve pulls away, tries not to read too much into the skittish way Steve handles him. 

“Is the water too hot?” Steve asks. He steps in behind Billy, his hands on Billy’s back to steady him. Billy has already bowed his head into the stream, letting the water soak his hair and roll down his back. He braces his hands against the wall to keep himself upright. 

“It’s fine,” he says. He turns to find the soap, but Steve has already lathered some between his hands and he massages it between Billy’s shoulders. He is gentle, even a bit timid, but Billy still says nothing. 

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Steve says. 

“You’re fine,” Billy says. He moves for the shampoo and begins to scrub his hair. He leans against Steve for balance. He finds himself growing heavier against Steve’s chest the longer he stands, and when they are finished, Steve all but carries him out of the shower. He helps Billy sit, helps him dry off, helps him dress. He apologizes all the way, and all of his touches are fleeting. Billy does not complain, though he does wince once when he twists the wrong way getting into his shirt.

“Sorry,” Steve says instinctually. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Billy mumbles.

“Sorry,” Steve says again, and this time he winces. “Sorry,” he repeats, and before Billy can tell him to quit it again he asks, “Couch or bed?”

“I don’t care,” Billy says. He sounds exhausted. “You pick.” 

“Bed’s closer,” Steve reasons, “if you’re tired.”

“That’s fine,” Billy murmurs. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. He is kneeling in front of Billy, and Billy raises his eyes to look at him. Steve reaches to tuck Billy’s damp hair behind his ear. His thumb rests on Billy’s cheek, lingers there for a moment, and Billy leans into the touch. “Are you okay?” Steve asks. 

“Fine,” Billy says quietly. 

“Come on,” Steve says. He offers his hands, and Billy takes them. They walk together down the hall and into Steve’s bedroom. Steve sits Billy on the bed. “I got the new Dio,” he tells him, sounding proud, and crosses the room to grab the cassette off the dresser. The corner of Billy’s mouth turns into a small smile.

“Not really your style,” he says, voice low and flat. Steve shrugs.

“It’s yours,” he says. 

“Throw it in,” Billy says, but Steve hesitates. He watches as Billy adjusts himself on the bed, and when Billy catches him looking he raises a brow. “What?” Billy asks.

“I just,” Steve starts, and then he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I told you I’m fine,” Billy grumbles. 

“I know,” Steve says. “You’re just quiet tonight,” he says. “Is something bothering you?”

“It’s nothing,” Billy says, eyes downturned. 

“Billy,” Steve says.

“Just put the tape on,” Billy says without looking at him.

“Hey,” Steve says. Billy still does not look at him. Steve sighs. He goes to the stereo, pops the cassette in, hits play. The throb of electric guitars pulses through the speakers. Steve glances at Billy, who is now sitting cross-legged on the bed with the blankets gathered in his lap. Steve hesitates one moment longer and then he goes to sit next to him. “Billy,” he says again, and though Billy still does not look at him, he does stop his fidgeting. “Talk to me,” Steve says. Billy shakes his head. “Billy.” 

Billy is quiet for one beat, and then two, and then he draws in a breath.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“What?” Steve asks, and then he quickly says, “No. No, no. Why would you think that?”

“You don’t want to touch me,” Billy says, and this time he does look at Steve, and the look in his eyes crushes Steve’s heart. “You don’t,” Billy says firmly, as if he has something to prove, and Steve feels the little pieces of his heart sink all the way down into his stomach. 

“Billy,” he says, and he gently rests his hand over Billy’s. Billy pulls away and this hurts Steve even more. Billy looks away from him and it feels like a slap to the face. “Baby,” Steve says softly. He reaches for Billy, touches his fingertips to Billy’s chin, gently guides Billy gaze toward him. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you,” Steve says. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” he concedes. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid of hurting you. I’m terrified that I’m gonna do something wrong and make things worse, and that’s the last thing I want to do.” 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Harrington,” Billy spits. Steve winces, but he holds steady. He keeps Billy’s head in place, looking at him, even though his eyes have turned harsh. They are misty with frustration and this hurts Steve even more. “I’m not gonna fucking break,” he snarls. 

“I know,” Steve says softly. “I mean, I don’t know in here,” he explains, pointing to his heart, “but I think I do here,” he says, pointing to his head. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.” He strokes Billy’s cheek with his thumb, and when Billy doesn’t try to shake him off, Steve scoots a bit closer to him. “Come here,” he says gently. He coaxes Billy toward him, and Billy lets him. He rests his head against Steve’s shoulder, guided by Steve’s hand, and he threads his arms around Steve’s waist as Steve’s arms close around him. Steve holds him gently, but he holds him, and Billy all but melts against him. He feels Steve’s fingers tangle in his hair and Steve begins him to rock him. Billy feels a surge of emotion- of relief, of frustration, of gratitude, of exhaustion -well up inside him and when his breath hitches, Steve holds him even tighter. “Shh,” he whispers, his breath tickling Billy’s ear, and Billy burrows his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. They sit there quietly- the music playing, the two of them tangled up together. After sometime, Steve rests his chin on the top of Billy’s head, and he asks, “Can I say something?” 

“What?” Billy murmurs quietly, almost slurring, sleepiness heavy in his voice. 

“This music does _not_ fit this mood.” 

This actually gets a laugh out of Billy. A real, genuine laugh, and when he laughs his hot breath falls against Steve’s collarbone and sends the slightest of shivers down Steve’s spine.

“I like it,” Billy says. He nestles closer, and Steve squeezes him tighter. He lets Billy rest against him, feels his finger tap along to the drumbeats on Steve’s back until his exhaustion gets the better of him and he is finally lulled to sleep. And as he sleeps, Steve holds him. He holds him and listens to the music that does not suit the room but that suits Billy just fine. Steve holds Billy closer than he has in months, revels in the feel of Billy’s breath on his skin, savors each solitary second of this moment. He falls asleep with Billy in his arms and, for the first time in months, he will wake up holding him, too. 


	34. leave those scars at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189097955205/billy-not-wanting-steve-to-see-him-without-his  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve has not been alone with Billy in months. 

In the hospital, there were always nurses flitting about. They would pop in to check Billy’s vitals, to replace his IV bags; they would usher Steve away when it came time to treat Billy’s wounds. Sometimes, the doctor would come by to assess him, or Billy’s father would be pacing outside the door or shouting at someone over the nurse’s station telephone. 

At home, Max is always in the next room. Steve can hear her moving about the house. She sometimes even comes into the room, often bearing Oxycontin or bottles of water. More than once she has come in with rubbing alcohol and a handful of gauze, and on those occasions Billy told Steve to leave the room. “I’ll be quick,” Max would say. When she left and Steve was allowed back inside, Billy was always quieter. He would adjust his shirt, or move his blankets until he was sure he was covered, until he was sure no single centimeter of scar tissue could be seen. He wouldn’t let Steve touch him near those scars. He angled his body in ways that shielded them. He wears heavy sweatshirts that Steve can’t feel through. He makes sure that they are never alone - that there is always someone else to help him, someone else to urge Steve out of the room when his scars might be exposed. 

It is September now. The day before school starts, Max arrives at the video store. She beelines for the counter, where Steve is carefully arranging boxes of candy. “I need a favor,” she says by way of greeting. Steve startles, drops a box of Twizzlers that knocks over a container of Milk Duds that sends bags of Pop Rocks crashing to the floor.

“Uh,” he stammers. “Okay?”

“I need you to check on Billy,” she says.

“To check on-”

“Neil works, like, crazy hours,” she says. “And my mom’s working now, too. He’s going to be alone when I’m at school. Neil says he’ll be fine, that it’s been long enough, but he still needs help doing, like, everything. I just…I really need you to check on him. Okay?”

“Uh,” Steve says again, and then he says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“There’s a spare key under the mat,” Max says. 

“I know where it is,” Steve says.

And so, on Monday morning, Steve waits until the last yellow school bus rolls past his house. He waits until the shouts of school children preparing for a new year simmer down and vanish into the vast wells of the school buildings. He circles Cherry Lane three times to be sure that there are no cars left in the driveway, save for the sad looking broken down Camaro perched in its cinderblocks. He parks at the curb. He digs the key out from beneath the welcome mat and he lets himself inside.

“Billy?” he calls. There is no answer. Steve steps further into the house. He peers down the hallway. Billy’s bedroom door is open, but the room is dark. The bathroom door is also open and yellow light spills from it into the hall. Steve’s tone becomes more concerned than inquisitive when he repeats, “Billy?” 

Steve can hear someone moving inside the bathroom. He hears the toilet flush. He sees a shadow rise up along the wall, stretched by the morning light that spills in from the high windows. He sees it sway, and then he hears a loud thud and Billy swearing. Steve rushes into the room to find Billy sprawled on the floor. He landed on his tailbone, his back against the bathtub, his weight pulling so hard against the shower curtain that Steve thinks it might rip right off. 

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. 

“Fuck off,” Billy grumbles.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve asks.

“I said _fuck off_ ,” Billy growls.

“Not a chance,” Steve says. When he steps into the room, Billy curls away. He is wearing basketball shorts and a think white shirt. He curls inward, wincing as he does, and he tries to angle himself away when Steve reaches out a hand. “Come on,” Steve says, already reaching for him, but Billy slaps him away.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks. 

“I’m trying to help you, you asshole,” says Steve.

“I don’t need help,” Billy insists.

“Fine,” Steve says. He holds up his hands. “Get up, then.”

Billy looks at him beneath the fringe of his hair. He huffs loudly. One hand gropes behind him until he finds the lip of he tub. He grabs it and he braces his other hand against the floor. Slowly, painstakingly, he begins to push himself up. He makes it his knees before Steve can’t take it anymore.

“This is pathetic,” Steve says. He grabs Billy’s arm before Billy can protest. He feels Billy’s whole body go rigid in his grasp. He jerks- actually jerks -like he is startled or afraid, and he tries to yank his arm away when Steve says, “Just let me help.”

“Get _off_ of me,” Billy says.

“You wanna say on the fucking floor all day?” 

“Seriously,” Billy says. “Why are you here?” 

“Max didn’t think you should be alone,” Steve says. “I think she’s got a point.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Billy insists. 

“Mhm,” Steve says. He moves to touch Billy’s back. Billy tries to angle himself away and, in the process, loses his balance and falls once again. “What are you doing?” Steve says, exasperated.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Billy snaps. 

“Billy,” Steve says. His tone softens. He gently lights on a hand on Billy’s shoulder- a safe spot, clear of scars. Billy keeps his head down. He is breathing heavily now, a combination of frustration and exertion putting a strain on his lungs. “Hey,” Steve says quietly. Billy still will not look at him, but he does life his head ever so slightly. “What’s the matter?” Steve asks.

“Just go home,” Billy grumbles. 

“I’m not leaving you here,” Steve says.

“I’m fine,” Billy says.

“Bullshit,” Steve says flatly. “Tell me what’s wrong.” Billy does not. He does not tell him anything. He lowers his head again, his hair falling to obscure his face. When he is quiet for too long, Steve asks, “Is it the scars?”

“Get the fuck out, Harrington,” Billy says. He does not sound angry. Steve doesn’t think he has the energy to portray anger, not in the true Billy Hargrove sense of the word. Instead, he sounds exhausted. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He lowers himself to Billy’s level, crochet down on the floor beside him. Billy tries to move away, but with the tub behind him he finds himself cornered. He settles for rounding his shoulders against Steve. He tries to turn his back, but Steve’s grip on his holds him steadily in place. Steve moves his hand to the back of Billy’s neck. He feels a shiver roll down Billy’s spine. “You think I don’t know?” Steve asks. “You think I don’t know that you’re trying to hide them? You’ve barely let me touch you in months. I know I’m not the brightest guy in town, but I know when something’s up.”

“Just go away,” Billy sighs. He sounds like a child, desperate and tired. 

“At least let me get you back to bed,” Steve says. 

“I got it,” Billy says. He begins to right himself again and, with Steve hovering over him, he makes a second attempt to get to his feet. He makes it, but at the top he stumbles, and he lands against Steve.

“I got you,” Steve murmurs. “I got you.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Billy grumbles. He pushes off of Steve and reaches for the sink, grabbing it to steady himself before opening the medicine cabinet. He roots around until he finds a small white tube - Steve recognizes it as the gel Max brings with her when she treats Billy’s wounds. It made its first appearance after his stitches came out, a new addition to the routine. When Billy unscrews the top, having his hands busied, he has to lean his hips against the sink to keep himself upright. 

“Sit down,” Steve tells him. “Let me do that.”

“Why are you still here?” Billy says. 

“Because I care about you, dickhead,” Steve says. “Sit.” 

“I got this,” Billy says.

Steve says, “Sit.” He takes the little white tube of cepalin from Billy’s hands. “You can sit here I can help you to the bedroom,” Steve offers. He stands behind Billy and meets his eyes in the mirror. Billy sighs heavily.

“You’re annoying as fuck,” Billy says. “You know that?”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve says. “What’ll it be?”

Billy stares at him hard for a good thirty seconds before he pushes off the sink. He rests a hand against the wall to guide himself down the hallway. Steve follows close behind, giving him as much space as feels safe, but staying close enough to catch him should he fall. When they make it to bedroom, Billy falls heavily onto the bed. He still for a moment. Steve stands over him, patient, waiting. When Billy looks up at him, there is something in his eyes that tugs at Steve’s heart- a begging, _please don’t make do this_ -perhaps even shame, _I don’t want you to see me_. Steve gently tucks Billy’s hair behind his ear. His thumb brushes Billy’s temple. Billy looks him in the eye and all the anger that was there before is gone. 

“You really can go,” Billy says. “I’ve got it from here.”

“I know,” Steve concedes. “I don’t want to.” 

“Seriously, Steve-” Billy starts, but Steve cuts him off with a kiss that startles Billy. When they part, Billy opens his mouth to say something more, but he seems to have forgotten what, exactly, that something was. Steve takes advantage of this. He kisses Billy’s forehead and then he sits beside Billy. 

“I’m going to see eventually,” Steve says, nodding toward Billy’s body- his chest, his stomach, his sides, all the pieces of him carved up by the Mind Flayer. Billy looks down. He frowns, and Steve rests a hand on Billy’s knee and squeezes. “It’s okay,” he says. 

“They’re fucking gross,” Billy warns. 

“I’ll brace myself,” Steve says. “Come on. It’s just me.” 

Billy is still and silent for one minute, and then two, and then he breathes a heavy sigh. He takes the hem of his shirt and, with some difficulty, he peels it off. He tosses it to the floor and he holds his breath. The scars are large and thick, each of them red and angry. The ones from the Mind Flayer are wide, irregular, shaped like stars and spiderwebs. There are surgical scars, too, cleaner and smaller and thinner. Steve does not know where to look, does not know where to start, and Billy keeps his eyes downturned. His skin is red and hot, flushed with embarrassment. When Steve takes too long to respond, he reaches for the tube.

“Just fucking go,” he murmurs, but Steve swipes the tube away. “Steve,” Billy says. Once again, Steve cuts him off with a kiss. He keeps kissing him this time, trailing Billy’s jaw and down his neck. He very gently lights his fingers over the largest scar, the one centered on his chest, and Billy sucks in his breath, “Steve,” he says softly, voice small. 

“Shh,” Steve whispers, and he kisses that tip of that scar. Billy’s skin jumps. He tenses, but he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t squirm, he doesn’t tell Steve to stop. Steve kisses down the length of Billy’s scar, gentle as can be, careful not to hurt him, and then he lifts his head and kisses Billy’s lips again. They part, and Billy looks at Steve like he’s seeing him for the first time. “It’s okay,” Steve tells him. 

“It’s not-” Billy starts, but Steve shakes his head.

“Stop,” he tells him. “I love you,” he says. “Okay?” 

Billy closes his eyes, and Steve does not know if it is exhaustion or frustration or relief or some combination of the three but a single tear slips down his cheek. Steve brushes it away, and he kisses the spot where it fell. Billy leans toward him, rests his forehead against Steve’s, and Steve gently holds the back of his neck. “I love you,” he repeats. “Do you believe that?”

Billy gives the smallest, slightest nod of his head. He says, “Yeah.” 

“Good,” Steve says softly. “Good.” 


	35. twisting heartache into fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189346468125/hi-i-have-a-fic-request-post-season-3  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Steve keeps a running list of things he cannot allow Billy to know:

(1) that he watches Billy sleep - not in a creepy way, of course, but rather to make sure that Billy is still alive, still breathing; (2) that sometimes the gap between Billy’s inhales and exhales stretch a second too long and Steve’s heart jumps up in his throat, and on more than one occasion he has held his hands over Billy’s chest, fully prepared to do compressions, only to feel the air softly ease from Billy’s lungs at the very last second; (3) that he cannot look at the scars across Billy’s back and shoulders, carved into his chest, sliced through his sides and snaking over his belly, without seeing them open and bleeding and smeared with black sludge; (4) that he cannot sleep without seeing Billy, pale and sickly, on the tiled floor of the mall - small in a hospital bed - weak on shaky legs, gripping door jabs and walls and Steve’s hands for support; (5) that there are fault lines running through him, spreading like spiderwebs all around his heart and cracking through every inch of his being, and that they spread every time Billy winces or curses in pain, every time Billy’s cheeks flush with embarrassment when he asks for Steve’s help, every time Billy wakes with an agonized cry; (6) that Steve thinks those cracks might soon split - that he might, himself, be breaking.

“I can do that,” Billy insists. His voice is soft and rasping, his throat still raw from the tubes that had done most of his breathing in the first weeks since Starcourt. He holds out his hand. Steve shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “I got it.” 

Billy does not fight him. This, too, fractures Steve’s waning resolve. Billy has always been fierce, stubborn, arrogant. He has always been pushy, has always shoved back against offerings of help, has always demanded his independence. Steve remembers, once, when Billy had been laid up with the flu. Everything had been a fight, from taking Billy’s temperature to getting food in him. Billy couldn’t seem to do anything without resistance. Steve remembers, too, being endlessly frustrated by Billy’s bullheadedness. He even remembers cursing him for it, telling Billy to get over himself. He remembers the satisfaction Billy had gotten when Steve’s voice tightened and tense, remembers being relieved when Billy had finally asleep, because it had meant that the fighting would stop awhile, that Billy would finally be quiet.

Now, Billy _is_ quiet. He is compliant. Steve would give anything to hear Billy call him a shithead and tell him to fuck off just one damn time. Instead, with his throat still hurting too much to talk, Billy’s words are short and clipped and sparing. His energy is spent keeping himself awake, holding himself upright, and he rarely has enough leftover to even _try_ to push Steve’s buttons. 

Where he otherwise may have swiped the damp washcloth from Steve’s hands, now he only peels his shirt from his own back. He thumbs at the gummy medical tape holding his surgical dressings down and, when he struggles to get it off, he lets Steve do it for him. He hangs his head in resignation. He doesn’t fight when Steve dabs around his stitches, doesn’t twist away when Steve hits a tender spot, doesn’t berate Steve or tease him, doesn’t even make a single snide, flirtatious remark when Steve lowers the waistband of Billy’s pants to reach the tail end of the scars that stretch down past his hips. 

Steve avoids looking him in the eye. He works quickly, and mutters quiet apologizes when he knows he’s pressed too hard or is edging too close to a sensitive spot. Billy says nothing. Not a peep, not a single word. Steve squeezes a thick white cream from a prescription tube and rubs it onto Billy’s scars. His fingers dance around the thick knots of his stitches. 

“Leave it,” Steve says when Billy pokes at some cream not quite soaked in on his chest. He listens, dropping his hand and not even chiding Steve for treating him like a child. Steve can hear the words he should be saying: _Come on, Harrington_ , Billy might have sighed, or _I’m not fucking five_. Those fissures inside Steve broaden to valleys. Steve’s throat tightens. His cheeks feel hot. He thinks that they must be red, and he tries not to let Billy see. “I’m almost done,” he says, hoping that Billy won’t hear the tension in his voice, hoping that Billy is too tired to notice the tear that he can’t hold back. 

“Steve?” Billy says in that new, quiet, raspy way of his. 

“Just a few more minutes,” Steve says. “I promise.”

“Steve,” Billy says again, no longer questioning. Steve sets the tube down and tears open a blue and white package of gauze. He starts to unravel the roll when a heavy hand stops him. There are scares on Billy’s fingers, too, some of them fresh and others long faded. Steve has never noticed so much detail there before. 

“Just-” Steve starts, and then he tries, “I need-”

He sighs. There is heat in his throat and burning all up his neck. He can feel his heart pounding. He blinks and he swipes at his cheeks in a desperate attempt to ward off the tears he can no longer keep from falling. 

“Give me a minute,” Steve says all too quickly. He sets the gauze on the bed and he rises to his feet. He turns his back to Billy in the hopes that Billy will not see his ever-growing distress. “I just need a minute,” he repeats. The words come out a jumbled mess, each one crash-landing into the next, and he is already moving before he finishes. Billy’s hand catches his wrist; Steve slips through his grasp, but Billy tightens his hold before Steve can get his fingers free. 

“Steve,” he says again, and he almost sounds desperate, and this is the metaphorical straw that breaks the camels back. Steve can hear the sob he is trying to surpress come out when he speaks.

“Billy, just- just give me a second, okay, I just-”

Just what? Steve doesn’t quite know himself. Maybe that is why he stands there, why he doesn’t tear his hand away, why- when Billy tugs on him -he lets himself fall back against the bed. He still won’t look at Billy, but he does let Billy thread their fingers together. He almost flinches when Billy’s raises his free hand, and a shiver ripples down Steve’s spine when Billy’s thumb brushes his jaw. 

At this gentle touch, Steve finally raises his eyes, and the sorrow in Billy’s makes him wish that he hadn’t. He looks hurt, and this hurts Steve more, and Steve would turn away against if Billy’s hand were not cupping his cheek. Billy looks like he wants to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Steve’s tears are falling freely now, and he doesn't know how to make them stop.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is stupid.”

Billy’s hand comes to the back of Steve’s head. He can feel Billy’s fingers in his hair. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Billy shakes his head.

“It’s not stupid,” he says.

“You don’t need this,” Steve says.

“I don’t care,” Billy says.

“I just-” Steve starts, and then he shakes his head. Billy holds him more firmly.

“Tell me,” he says. Steve lets out a long sigh. 

“I keep thinking about what you looked like,” he says, “that night. I can’t get it out of my head. The scars- they- I keep- I keep seeing them the way they were, and I keep thinking that- I just don’t- I don’t want to lose you.” 

His head comes to rest on Billy’s shoulder now, and Billy wraps both arms around him. He rubs circles against Steve’s back and this makes Steve cry more. He cries because Billy is so very gentle with him, cries because Billy should not have to be so gentle, because Billy should not have to comfort him. But here he is, all his wounds exposed and still awaiting fresh dressings, rocking Steve and letting Steve sob against his shoulder. 

“Shh,” he whispers, and Steve all but shatters. 

“This is bullshit,” Steve says, voice shaky and soaked with tears, and Billy tucks Steve’s head beneath his chin. Steve can feel him shaking his head. 

“No,” Billy tells him. “It’s not.” 

“I’m fine,” Steve lies. He tries to pull away, but Billy has Steve pinned against him and will not let him go. “I just need to-” Steve starts, but Billy cuts him off. 

“I’m fine,” Billy tells him. “I’m fine, too. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I should be-” Steve starts, and again Billy cuts him off.

“It’s okay,” he tells him. He holds him even tighter and against his better judgment, against everything in his heart that tells him that he needs to pull himself together, that Billy should not have to take care of him, that he needs to finish taking care of Billy, that this is simply not the time to fall apart, he curls closer to Billy. Billy lets him - even encourages him. He whispers, “Shh.” and he holds Steve against his shoulder until Steve calms himself, until Steve sags against him. Even then, when Steve knows he should compose himself, should set back to work on helping Billy, he lets Billy hold him. He lets himself listen to the strong beat of Billy’s heart, to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to Billy’s voice as he murmurs gentle reassurances against Steve’s hair. 

“It’s okay,” Billy promises. “It’s okay.” 


	36. grant theft autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189365837150/i-need-some-happiness-after-some-heated-family  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

Things go missing from Billy’s closet. 

First, it was a hooded sweatshirt from his old high school back in San Diego. Billy had grabbed for it on a chilly night and came away empty handed. He thought it must have gotten lost in the endless cycles of washing Susan always seemed to be doing, and figured it might turn up in a few days. It didn’t. Next, a red button-down shirt disappeared. He dug through his hamper, recalling wearing it not a week before, but again came away with nothing. He volunteered- _willingly_ -to fold laundry in order to find it, but neither shirt turned up in any of the loads Billy sorted. T-shirts started to vanish from his drawers; old ones, worn and bleach-stained, the kinds he normally reserved for the gym. His collection began to deplete one by one, and Billy began to wonder if maybe Susan was simply tossing the rattier, threadbare ones. He started volunteering to do the laundry - _willingly_ \- to put a stop to it, but the shirts kept getting lost and Billy couldn’t seem to find them. When his denim jacket went missing, Billy finally confronted Susan. 

“I’m sorry,” she had said, and Billy would tell that she genuinely meant it by the way she blinked at him in utter confusion. “I haven’t touched them. I can keep an eye out for you.” 

Billy had thanked her gruffly. 

He’d kept an eye on Max. She’s got a history of pilfering clothes: borrowing a jacket or layering one of Billy’s sweatshirts when it was particularly cold, but none of the missing items showed up on her. Once, he caught her wearing a Metallica tee that had recently gone missing, but Max swore up and down that she only grabbed it from the wash because all of her things were dirty. After a week with none of Billy’s things showing up in Max’s wardrobe, Billy believed her. 

It takes weeks more before Billy finally finds the culprit. 

It is a quiet November evening, and Billy is lying-in Steve Harrington’s bed, flipping through a battered old copy of _On the Road._ Down the hall, he hears the rush of the shower head come to a sudden stop. Within in minutes, Steve is padding barefoot into the room, still towel-drying his hair. He is wearing a faded Chargers tee. Billy raises a brow.

“California fan?” he asks. Steve glances down at the shirt. His cheeks flush red. He had not realized which one he had grabbed before heading off to shower. He hadn’t realized it had been one of Billy’s.

“Uh,” he stammers. “Yeah? I mean, I, uh- Well, y’know, you’re from-”

A pillow hits Steve square in the face. He stumbles backwards and just-barely catches the pillow before it hits the ground. “Fucking thief,” Billy says, though there is no anger in his voice. His words are actually undercut by a laugh, though Steve is not quite sure he trusts it.

“I, uh-” he starts, and then says, “I just, um-” and he stutters on, no real words forming, and the whole time he does Billy is watching him, a smug grin on his face, and Steve can feel his face getting redder and redder. Eventually, he says, rather lamely, “I’m sorry.” 

“What else did you take?” Billy asks, still more entertained than angry. Steve finds this reaction more embarrassing than any other. What must Billy think of him? Billy rises from the bed and swings open Steve’s closet door. “Oh,” he says, voice still light, and he actually _chuckles_ when he tugs at the sleeve of his own denim jacket, hanging lopsided on one of Steve’s hangers. “I should’ve figured,” he says. 

“I didn’t mean-” Steve starts, and then he shakes his head. “I just- I don’t get to be with you all the time, and I’m not, like…used to that? With other-” other what? there haven’t been other guys, and would Billy get insulted if Steve said girls? relationships sounds almost formal, somewhat heavy, for two teens who haven’t even discussed what they are to one another yet. Steve feels trapped, and he’s scared that this might really scare Billy off, that he’ll decide that Steve is simply too intense and will run off on him never to look back. The silence, he realizes, is stretching on too long, and he clears his throat before continuing. “I just wanted…I don’t know, something of yours? For when you’re not here.”

Billy looks at him with one brow arched. It makes Steve feel like he is under a goddamn microscope, though the relief he feels when Billy returns to rifling through the closet is short-lived. For a while, Billy is quiet, just poking at hangers and tugging on pieces that Steve had pilfered from Billy’s own bedroom: a sweatshirt, some old t-shirts. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, if only to make some kind of noise. Those two words set off a domino effect, and more come tumbling out faster than Steve catch them. “I didn’t mean to take so much stuff. I don’t even think I realized I was taking so much. It’s just that we can’t be, like…open? And, I don’t know. It’s not- I just- I wanted to. Uh, what are you doing?”

Billy has pulled out a shirt, but it is not one of his own. He is not reclaiming some stolen piece that Steve has been hiding for weeks. Instead, he is pulling one of Steve’s sweatshirts off of a broken black hanger. He tugs it over his head, shakes his hair loose from the collar, and when he looks at Steve again that grin of his has faded into something kinder and more sincere. 

“I want to see what you’re getting at,” he says honestly. 

“You want to…” Steve trails off, the pieces fitting together slowly in his head. 

“I mean, you’ve clearly been taking my stuff for weeks. Do you, like-”

“I don’t really wear it around,” Steve admits. “I, uh…I’ve slept in your t-shirts.” At this, Billy’s brow arches once more, and Steve feels that hot flush creep back up his neck. “They…they smell like you. Uh, I mean, like- like your cologne, I guess? I don’t know. I like it.” Billy’s smile grows, and Steve thinks that it is not a mocking sort of smile. 

“That’s cute,” Billy says.

“Cute?” Steve repeats.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “It’s cute.”

“I just-” Steve says, and Billy laughs.   
  
“Relax, Harrington,” he says. He returns to his spot on the bed and pats the empty space next to him. The hem of Steve’s sweatshirt rises as Billy stretches one arm up to support his head. He takes up his book again, lounging there, on Steve’s bed, in Steve’s freshman Hawkins High sweatshirt. Steve hesitates.

“You’re not mad?” he asks. Billy peeks him over the top of his book.

“No,” he says plainly. “I’m just glad I know where all my shit’s been going.”

“I really didn’t meant to take so much,” Steve says again. 

“Seriously,” Billy says. “Relax.”

This time, Steve listens. He drops his towel on the floor and takes up the spot beside Billy. Billy opens his free arm and Steve comes to rest against, his head landing on Billy’s chest, Billy’s arm closing around his back. They are quiet again, Billy thumbing through Kerouac, Steve lying beside him. 

“You’re really not mad?” Steve asks again, and Billy closes his book. 

“I’m really not,” he insists. “I really think it’s fucking cute. Hell, I’ll sleep in this damn thing tonight, see if it’s worth snatching some more shit from your closet.”

“I can’t tell if that’s-”

“-it’s not sarcastic,” Billy says. “I mean, you can definitely, like, _ask_ before you take my shit. Max would probably appreciate it.”

“Max?” Steve asks, confused.

“She was wearing my shirt,” Billy explains. “I thought she was the one taking my stuff.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and he makes a mental note to apologize to Max. 

“And I am going to take the jacket back,” Billy says. “It’s getting fucking cold.”

“That’s fair,” Steve agrees. “Unless-” he starts, and then stops himself, but he has already piqued Billy’s interest. 

“Unless?” Billy asks.

“You can take one of mine,” Steve offers. Billy thinks about this. He thinks about for so long that the silence makes Steve wonder if he has said something unbearably stupid. He rests his chin on Billy’s chest so that he can look up at him, trying to gauge Billy’s thoughts, but he doesn’t get far before Billy kisses him- briefly, but long enough to send Steve’s thoughts in a fluttering whirl. He blinks when they part, and Billy’s smug little grin is back in place.

“Okay,” he agrees.

“Okay?” Steve asks. “I mean, I guess you’d have to wear it out, so if you don’t want to-”

“The blue one,” Billy tells him. “I’ll take that.”

Steve’s brow creases. He wears his blue jacket quite often- often enough for it to be known, often enough for friends to know that it is, in fact, his. If Billy wore it, this would mean…

Steve doesn’t quite believe it. “Are you sure?” he asks. 

“Why not?” Billy says, nonchalant. Steve cannot think of an answer. His heart skips a beat, maybe even two. Is this some kind of crossing a metaphorical threshold? It is a step in a new direction? Is it an official stamp on their relationship? He thinks that the answers are all yes, and as he rests his head back against Billy’s chest he finds that, for all of Billy’s effortless nonchalance, his heart is beating fast, too. Steve wraps his arms around Billy’s middle. He squeezes, and his heart jumps when Billy squeezes him back. 


	37. when you think with your chest (there's not a thing that you don't see)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189384752445/sicksteve-please-as-much-as-i-love-me-some  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.

A flash- like a lightning bolt, a clap of thunder; some great cosmic force flips a switch that throws the clock back and shoves Steve tumbling backwards in time. He can smell the smoke from the fireworks, can hear them pop against the ceiling, spark and fizzle on the floor. He can taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth. Sometimes, he sees a shadow moving along the wall and he swears it is a demogorgon crawling on the other side. He can never take his eyes away, sure that it would soon push its way through. Once, he even took a kitchen knife to the drywall, an incident that he is still trying to cover up because he is not quite sure how to explain the huge gash to his mother.

The squeal of bus tires becomes the snarl of a demodog. He jumps when car doors slam. He plays defense every waking hour of his days, always on edge, always alert. On his worst days, his back aches from the tension wound tight across his shoulders.

Today is one such day. Steve’s heart is pounding and he cannot calm it. His body feels like he has run two back-to-back marathons after a line of basketball scrimmages, when in reality he has not done more than walk from the house to the car to the table at the back of Mel’s Diner. Billy sits across from him, and he is staring at Steve. He won’t stop _fucking_ staring.

“Would you fucking stop?” Steve says, and Billy’s eyes widen- not in anger, not even looking hurt. If anything, he looks concerned, and somehow this upsets Steve even more. 

“What the hell am I doing?” Billy asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“You know what you’re doing,” Steve says flatly.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Billy asks, and Steve groans.

“Where the fuck did you pull that phrase?” he says. “You sound like a fucking dad.”

“Untwist your fucking panties, man,” Billy says. “You’re making a scene.”

Steve cannot look at Billy too long. He glances over Billy’s shoulder to see the door every time it swings it open. He flinches at every little clank of silverware, every shout from the waitstaff, every call from the cooks. Billy notices, but where, on other days, his eyes followed Steve’s, trailed to whatever was demanding Steve’s attention, today his attention is zeroed in on Steve. Steve feels like he’s under a microscope. He tries to shrink himself down, to make his movements minute, to do anything that might draw Billy’s focus away from him. 

It doesn’t work. Billy is, after all, not an idiot. He knows what Steve is doing, even if he hasn’t quite pinned down the _why_. Steve thinks that this is what he is truly trying to deduce, and he doesn’t know if he wants Billy to find the answer. 

“You’re still doing it,” he snaps, and Billy rises to his feet. 

“That’s it,” he says.

“What’s it?” Steve asks. Billy’s hand closes around his bicep and he pulls Steve to his feet and shoves him not so gently toward the door. “What the fuck?” Steve says. A couple- two underclassmen Steve vaguely recognizes from Hawkins High -at a table near them turns, and when their eyes spot Billy and Steve, they turn quickly away. Billy nudges Steve forward and as they move away Steve can hear the two teens whispering to each other. He thinks he catches his name, but he isn’t quite sure, and before he knows it he is outside being guided toward his own waiting BMW. 

“Who’s making a scene now?” Steve grumbles.

“Keys,” Billy demands, opening his palm.

“We didn’t even eat yet,” Steve says.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you starve,” Billy says. Then he raises his waiting hand. “Keys.”

“I can drive my own fucking car,” Steve grumbles.

“You don’t know where we’re going,” Billy declares, and again he says, “Keys.” 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Steve asks.

“I’m not playing,” Billy says sternly. “Keys. Now.”

Steve relents, but he is not happy about it. He fishes in his pocket and tosses his keys to Billy. When they get into the car, Billy rolls down all the windows. He tunes the radio to his favorite station and turns the volume up as high as it can go.

“You’re gonna blow my speakers,” Steve complains.

“Shut up,” Billy says. He peels out of the diner parking lot with the music blaring. Steve is sure that every single person they pass can hear the closing bars of _The Four Horsemen_ as Billy powers down the street and makes a series of sharp, calculated turns. He drives through town and, when he hits the highway, Steve finds himself nervous.

“Are you going to fucking kill me?” Steve shouts over the music and the wind that gets louder through the open windows at Billy hastens the car’s pace. Steve glances at the odometer and watches as the little needle bounces higher and higher with every mile marker they pass. 

“Not yet,” Billy says. He is drumming one palm against the steering wheel in perfect beat with the music. Steve watches every strike, finds himself drawn to it, even counts each slap of Billy’s palm against the wheel. _One, two, three, four-_ in quick succession, then two slower claps before the pattern repeats. When the songs change, so does Billy’s drumming, and Steve is fascinated by the easy way he picks up the nuances of each new song. Eventually, he turns toward the windshield, still listening to that steady drumming through the rush of wind and the throb of the bass. 

“Where are we going?” Steve eventually asks, but Billy either does not hear him or chooses not to. When Steve looks at him, Billy has one arm out the window and mouthing the words to _Looks That Kill_. “Hey,” Steve shouts, and Billy glances briefly at him. “Where are we going?”

Without answering- or perhaps this _is_ his answer -Billy takes the next exit. Steve did not get a chance to read the sign before it blew past them in a blur of brown and white. Billy finally eases up on the gas. Steve doesn’t quite recognize where they are, but Billy seems to know his way. He glides across lanes of thinning traffic, turns down dirt roads that don’t really look like roads, and eventually parks on a strip of worn down grass. When he kills the ignition, the sudden silence almost hurts. It rings in Steve’s ears and, when Steve speaks, he still finds himself yelling as if competing with the music that is now gone. 

“You are going to kill me,” he says, “aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” Billy says. He swings open the door and slams it behind him. He starts walking without looking to see if Steve is following. Steve thinks that this means he’s supposed to follow, so he lets himself out and does just that. 

“Where the hell are we?” he asks. Billy does not answer. He leads Steve down a short dirt trail lined with trees. They walk for barely a minute before the trail empties out onto what Steve thinks must be the smallest beach in existence. Its shore is thin, the sand coarse and rocky, and the water fills up a lake so small that Steve thinks he could wade to the other side. Billy walks onto that small beach, moving down the shore like he’s done this a thousand times before (and, for all Steve knows, he has). He is looking at the ground as he walks, and Steve looks down, too, though he isn’t quite sure what they’re looking for. Eventually, Billy seems to find it. He plucks something off the ground and tosses it in his hand, then winds up his arm with the practiced technique of a major league pitcher and chucks the small rock at the water. It hops over the surface one, two, three times before sinking. 

“That was shit,” Billy says, already kicking up some sand in search of a new rock.

“Why’d we come out here?” Steve asks. “There are lakes in Hawkins.”

“They’re all always crowded,” Billy says. “This is better.”

“Better for what?” Steve asks. 

“To get away,” Billy shrugs. Steve looks at him. Billy meets his eyes and Steve finds something like compassion there, something like understanding, something like a question. “I don’t know what’s going on up there,” Billy says, pointing at Steve’s head, “but I can see the wheels turning. I know when you’ve got shit on your mind,”

“I don’t really want to-” Steve starts, and Billy shakes his head.

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But you weren’t thinking about it since the diner, were you?” he asks, and know there is something knowing in his eyes, and it almost makes Steve smile.

“Uh,” he says. “No,” he admits. “Now that you mention it.” 

“You can pick the music next time,” Billy says. “I just went default, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks. 

“Nightmares?” Billy says. When Steve creases his brow, Billy points just below his eyes, where dark circles that rival Steve’s own sit like fading bruises. “Flashbacks,” he says. At Steve’s confusion, he shrugs his shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s going on for you, but living in your head isn’t gonna do shit.”

“You sound like a Star Wars character,” Steve says.

“I’m going to have to ask you never to say that again,” Billy says, feigning anger. He then takes another rock from the ground and hands it to Steve. “Skip it,” he tells him. “Focus on the water like you focused on the music.” 

Steve takes the rock. He turns it over between his fingers, then glances up the water. After a few seconds, he looks at Billy.

“I still don’t get what this is all about,” he says. 

“You’re not focusing,” Billy tells. Steve exhales. He looks back to the water. He raises his arm, flicks his wrist, sends the rock skipping once, twice, three times before it drops to the bottom with a soft plunk. 

“Where’d you learn this?” Steve asks. “This, like, _focusing_ bullshit?”

“Honestly?” Billy asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Honestly.”

“Max,” Billy says. “Some shit her dad used to do with her, apparently. She and I started coming down here a few months ago. With all the shit after…well, you know. I guess I was stir crazy. I guess she saw. We’d go on drives. Found this place.”

Steve is only half listening. Billy had been cooped up since Starcourt, this he knows. He had visited him at Hawkins Lab and he had snuck in through Billy’s bedroom window at home. He had been with him, but he hadn’t noticed how cabin fever had made Billy so restless. He was too busy looking for monsters in the shadows, too distracted by the burnt smell of gunpowder he swears he can’t wash off his hands. He feels guilty.

Billy’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to talk,” Billy says. “But if shit gets too heavy to carry, just tell me you want to go to the beach. Okay?”

The sincerity in Billy’s voice, on his face, settled in the very depths of his eyes, is unlike anything Steve has ever seen in him before. Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder and Steve thinks he might melt at the touch. Again, he sighs. “Okay.” They are quiet for a time. As promised, they do not talk. They skip rocks. They make it a competition; Billy wins, though Steve chalks this up to experience. The sun begins to sit and they quit their game, instead sitting together the sand. Steve leans against Billy. Billy secures on arm around Steve’s back. Steve rests his head on Billy’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Steve asks, “What if I want to talk?”

“What?” Billy asks.

“About…everything,” Steve says. “What if I want to?” 

“You can,” Billy says.

“Not now,” Steve clarifies.

“That’s fine,” Billy says.

“But maybe later,” Steve says. 

“No pressure,” Billy assures.

“I will want to,” says Steve.

“I’ll be here,” Billy says. 

“Promise?” Steve asks. Instead of speaking right away, Billy squeezes Steve’s shoulder. He tugs Steve a little bit closer and Steve lets him. He feels Billy press a kiss to the top of his head and, if possible, Steve curls up even closer to him. 

As the sun takes its bow and the sky grows deeply dark, Billy says, “I promise”


	38. take this to your grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189403257480/if-i-am-able-for-a-request-when-u-have-the-time  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.
> 
> Note: For the sake of brevity, let’s just say that this is in an AU where Billy worked at Scoops Ahoy with Steve (although I do have an idea for an AU where Billy is freed from the Mind Flayer but is kidnapped by some sneaky Russians before the kids can get to him post-sauna test, so if you want to think of it in that sort of scenario, be my guest! and someone let me know if you’d be interested in reading something like that because…now I’m tempted).

The words leave his mouth before Billy can stop them. He can feel them popping off of his tongue and he cannot tell why, what their purpose is, if he even wants to hear the answer. “Have you ever been in love?” It’s a silly question. The kind that pre-teen girls giggle over at sleepovers, the kind that movie characters ask just before they confess their undying love for one another. Of all the questions that he could ask a drug-addled Steve Harrington, of the dirt that he could dig up, this is what his own hazy brain comes up with: 

_ Have you ever been in love? _

And maybe there’s a reason for it, a reason that Billy is not quite ready to admit - that he _won’t_ admit until he hears Steve’s answer. But maybe it’s there, lying underneath his softly slurred inquiry. Maybe there’s even a little glimmer of hope behind it.

From the next stall over, he hears Steve hum in thought. It a long while before Steve answers, so long that Billy things that he has forgotten the question - he almost hopes that Steve has, but then he hears Steve’s sleepy-sounding voice say, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Billy nudges.

“Yeah,” Steve repeats. “Uh, Nancy Wheeler. I don’t- I didn’t think I’d ever get over her.”

“No?” Billy asks. He cannot see it, but Steve shakes his head. 

“It, uh, it took a long time,” Steve admits. 

“But you did get over her?” Billy asks, trying to sound teasing but coming off curious. When Steve does not answer, Billy asks, “Are you still in love with her?”

“For a while I was,” Steve says. Again, he falls silent, and that silence stretches the full length of the empty bathroom. It fills it up and rings against the walls and Billy thinks it’ll make him go mad. When Steve says quiet for too long, he clears his throat.

“What happened?” he asks. 

“Uh,” Steve stammers. Billy thinks he sounds a little more sober, but he can’t be sure. “I met someone,” Steve says. “Someone else. And, uh, this…this person…sort of made me feel…not quite how Nancy did, really. I mean, it’s similar, but not the same, you know? It might even be better. I’ve never met someone cooler, you know? Or, like, funnier. Or smarter. I mean, I’ve known some cool people, right? But not like this. I mean, I’ve also never met anyone more stubborn, and for a while I thought…I thought that I’d never met a bigger fucking asshole. I mean, he’s got this wild temper. Fucking insane. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He?” Billy asks. His heart catches in his throat and he has to swallow hard to get it to go back down. Even when he does, he can feel it pounding hard and fast in his chest, so severely that he thinks it’ll burst right out. Steve doesn’t seem to hear him. That, or he chooses to ignore him. 

“I guess things changed, though,” he says, though Billy is only half-listening now. He cannot move past that one little syllable that so casually fit itself on Steve’s tongue. _He_. It came out as easy as a breath. Steve says, “Changed in a a good way, you know? Like…really good, I think. I don’t know. I guess a kidnapping can bring people together.” Billy can _hear_ the smile in Steve’s voice. It makes Billy’s heart- hell, his whole chest -burn. He thinks that he is fitting the pieces together, but he won’t let himself believe it. He won’t let himself think that Steve Harrington is making some grand, film-worthy love confession in an empty movie theater bathroom. Surely, his tongue is still thick with the drugs. Surely, his brain is as fuzzy as Billy’s whole head feels. Billy is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t Steve falter when he says, “But…I don’t know. I don’t think anything can happen there.”

“Why not?” Billy asks. Steve huffs a small little laugh. 

“I don’t think I’m his type,” he says. 

There it is again, Billy thinks. _His_ , Fitting so easily in Steve’s speech that Billy has to wonder if Steve even knows that he’s saying it. Has it found its way there on purpose? Does Steve hear it, too?

“I mean, how do you know, right?” Steve asks. “If someone swings that way, I mean. If I asked him I think he’d just punch me in the face, and I’ve about taken all I can of that.” 

Billy goes silent- _really, really_ silent. The gears in his brain are churning so hard that Billy thinks he can smell the smoke they’re surely working up. He hugs his knees to his chest and buries his face against them. He breathes in deeply, exhales fully, tries to get his heart to quit skipping every other beat. 

He must be quiet for a long time because eventually Steve says, “Billy?” Billy peeks up over his knees and sees Steve’s shadow moving in the next stall. One sneakered foot pokes into Billy’s, and then another, and then Steve comes crawling his way under the gap. Billy raises a brow as Steve settles his back against the wall. “Thought I lost you,” he says quietly. 

“Still here,” Billy says. He straightens his back. He loosens his hold on his own legs and tries to regain some semblance of composure as the heat of Steve’s eyes- one of them so purple and puffy and bruised that it is nearly swollen shut -lock onto him. He lifts his chin, rolls his shoulders, though each little movement comes across less confident and more fidgety. 

“Did you, uh…” Steve starts, his hands doing some fidgeting of their own, “connect the dots?” Billy does not say anything, not yet, and these seems to touch on Steve’s already frayed nerves. “I mean, I’m not good at the, uh, code talk? And I guess, uh, well…I mean, you haven’t hit me yet, so-”

He is cut off, suddenly.

He is cut off by Billy’s lips on his. He is cut off by Billy kissing him. Billy’s heart in his throat and Steve’s jumps up into his own. Billy’s hands fall on Steve’s knees and he smells like disinfectant and sweat and he tastes like salt and copper and Steve’s back is pushed flush against the red wall of the bathroom stall because _Billy Hargrove is kissing him_. 

When they part, Steve is breathless. He counts to five before opening his eyes and he finds Billy looking at him. He forces himself to exhale and he says, “Um.”

“I connected the dots,” Billy says.

“You- uh, you-” Steve stammers. He clears his throat, then asks, “You…you like guys?”

“Sometimes,” Billy shrugs. “You do?” he asks.

“Uh,” Steve stutters. “Sometimes.” He leans closer, and they kiss again, and Steve feels like there are fireworks exploding inside of him. Billy brings a hand up to tangle in Steve’s hair. He kisses him deeper this time, and Steve lets him, and, God, they both pray that this is not some drug-induced fever dream. Steve even whispers, between the breaths swiped between kisses, “Is this real?”

And Billy answers, “Yes.” It’s real. It’s real.


	39. take it out on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post/request: https://biillyhargroves.tumblr.com/post/189539376965/dont-you-dare-touch-him-harringrove  
> Fic requests are open at biillyhargroves.tumblr.com.
> 
> Trigger Warning: This story contains moderately graphic depictions of child abuse and violence against minors. If these topics are unsafe for you to read about, please click away. Your safety is of the utmost importance.

Neil Hargrove is not supposed to be home.

Steve knows this. It is a Thursday night, and the Hargrove patriarch can only ever be found at Shanahan’s Pub on Thursday nights. He tucks in after punching the clock and remains there well past happy hour, well past last call. On some Thursday nights, Mr. Hargrove does not find his way home at all. He has been known, occasionally, to stay the night in the small gravel lot outside the bar and, more than once, been discovered there by Chief Hopper or one of the local patrolmen in the early hours of a Friday morning and been sent on his way. Susan Hargrove remains unfettered by her husband’s Thursday night disappearances. She enjoys the quiet, it seems. Sometimes, she works late; her husband cannot complain when he is not home to expect dinner, and she often orders pizza or an overwhelming amount of Chinese food to the house, or gives a couple of fives to her children, so that they do not go hungry in her absence. Steve has ridden shotgun on enough burger runs, has broken enough fortune cookies on enough Thursday nights to know that Neil Hargrove is never, ever home.

The house is always warm. Sometimes, El comes over, or Lucas sneaks in through Max’s window (a habit, he murmurs, when Billy reminds him that the front door is _right there, shithead_ and that he doesn’t always have to break in like some criminal - “Look who’s talking,” Steve has teased, reminded of all the times that Billy has squeezed himself through second-story windows). The night is always quiet, Steve might even call them peaceful, when Neil Hargrove is not home.

And tonight, of course, is a Thursday night. Neil Hargrove is not supposed to be home, so it strikes Steve as rather odd that his battered old Ford is sitting in the driveway. 

Steve wonders if perhaps the truck had broken down this morning. Maybe, after cursing at the damned piece of junk, Neil Hargrove had taken his wife’s car to work. Steve circles around the block once, twice, tries to see inside the yellow windows of the Hargrove house. He can see no shadows inside; no shapes besides the back of the couch, the living room lamp. Steve parks a few streets over, just to be safe. 

Also to be safe, Steve creeps around the backyard. There is no light on in Billy’s bedroom, but there is in Max’s. Steve sees something- _someone_ -dart inside the dimly lit room. He hears a door slam. Max jumps, almost screams, when Steve taps on her window. He apologizes her she even opens it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sor-”

“ _Shh_!” Max hisses. Steve can hear yelling deeper inside the house. There are two voices, both of them male, one of them Billy’s. Steve cannot make out what he is saying but he doesn’t like the pitch of it, the tone of it, the way the words sound raw at their edges. “What are you doing here?” Max whispers. 

“I-” Steve starts, and he lowers his voice when she glares at him- not in angry way, Steve notices. She looks scared. “It’s Thursday,” he says plainly. 

Max only considers this for a fraction of a second before she says, “You need to go.”

Behind her closed door, there is a loud _bang!_ and a subsequent _thud!_ that makes them both jump. The walls shake. There is another shout- something between a grunt and a yelp -followed by a loud, angry bellowing sound. “You need to go,” Max says again, and her voice shakes like the walls. She starts to push Steve outside, but he grips the windowsill. She starts to close the pane but he grabs onto her wrist. 

“Wait,” he says, and when she keeps trying to shove him away he says, “No, no, no. Hey, come on. What the hell is going on?”

“Steve, just go,” Max says desperately.

“No,” Steve says firmly. “No, I’m not just gonna walk away.”

“Steve,” Max says. 

“No,” Steve repeats. “How bad is it?” he asks. “It sounds bad.”

“Steve, you _have_ to go,” Max begs. But Steve has made up his mind. He pushes away from the window and instead of closing it like she’d wanted to, like she’d so desperately been trying to, Max leans her head outside. “Steve!” she calls, still trying to stay quiet. He is crossing the lawn, rounding the corner. “You’ll make it worse!” she says, but she doesn’t think he can hear her. Her step-father, though, could. He calls her name.

“Maxine!” he shouts. “What the fuck is going on in there?”

Without thinking, Max scrambles out the window. She is running around the house, following Steve’s path, by the time Neil Hargrove gets her bedroom door open. She hears him scream her name again and her heart jumps up into her throat. She thinks she might throw it right up, that all of her insides might come spilling out, and she swallows them all back down when she catches up with Steve. 

“Steve, stop it,” Max pleads. He swings around and grabs her shoulders and she freezes. Steve hates the fear in her eyes, hates that he’s the one causing it- right now, at least, in this moment.

“Go to the Byers’,” he tells her. 

“Steve,” Max says. Her voice is small, so very childlike, and for a moment Steve realizes that he has forgotten how young she actually is. She looks younger still with her eyes that wide, with tears in them, with her bottom lip quivering. 

“Go to the Byers and call Hopper,” Steve says. “Make sure it’s him. Can you do that?”

“I-” Max starts, “Steve-” And then, in an instant, her face hardens. “Okay,” she says. 

“Is your mom home?” Steve asks.

“She’s…” she starts. “No. No, she’s out of town.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Go.”

“You really should’ve gone home,” Max says.

Steve says nothing to this. Instead, he tells her, “Go. Mrs. Byers will help.” When Steve lets go of Max, she lingers for a moment. She stares at Steve with a look he can’t quite place. It’s not disappointment, but perhaps uncertainty. Disbelief, maybe. And, Steve thinks, even the tiniest spark of hope. She looks to the house and, when they hear Neil Hargrove shout again, she takes off down the street.

Steve opens the front door. He sees a shadow slip against the hallway wall, big and tall and monstrous. He hears Neil Hargrove growl, “Where’d she go?” he is demanding. “Is she covering for you, you God damned piece of shit? Where the fuck did she go?”

“Billy?” Steve calls, and this makes the yelling stop. 

There is a momentary silence, so quick it seems like an illusion. Steve is frozen in the open doorway. His heart is hammering; he can hear it in his ears, can feel his own pulse throb through every vein. He can taste bile at the back of his throat and prays to whatever deity might deign to listen that it stays put. The shadow grows against the wall again, and it is followed by the thumping footsteps. Steve sees Neil Hargrove’s boots first, scuffed up and dirty, and then he sees his fists with their red knuckles. His face looks less like a man and more like a monster, like something out of the horror movies Max always made them watch. His eyes are hard and his glare feels like daggers drilling right through Steve’s head. He snarls, and Steve half-expects some animal growl to come out of him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Neil demands. 

“Where’s Billy?” Steve counters. He looks behind Neil, but he cannot see anything in the dark hallway. Steve takes a step into the foyer. “Billy?” he calls again. “Billy?!” He doesn’t realize how far he’s moved into the house until Neil Hargrove is butting the stubby tips of his fingers against Steve’s chest. Steve stalls. He stops searching for Billy and looks at those knife-edge eyes. 

“Get out of here, son,” Neil Hargrove says, voice low and downright sinister. Each syllable sends its own chill snaking down Steve’s spine. Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out- not a word, not a squeak, not a scream. “Go on,” Neil Hargrove tells him. 

But Steve doesn’t go. 

Neil Hargrove hangs his head. A breathes a heavy sigh and then, turning slightly toward the hallway, he shouts, “Billy! You want to come out here and tell me who this asshole is?” There is no answer. Steve tries to listen, tries to catch even a small rasp of Billy’s breathing, but his ears are ringing and he can’t hear anything else. Neil looks to him again, a kind of sideways glance, and Steve feels another tremor shudder through him. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t get out,” Neil warns, but instead of finding a phone he shouts over his shoulder, “Billy! You get your ass out here!” 

This time, there is movement; a small shuffling, a shifting of shadows. Steve watches Billy emerge from them. He presses one hand against the wall for support and his other warm is wrapped protectively around his middle. One eye is puffy and swollen, and Steve thinks he’s watching it swell right shut. Billy’s lip is bleeding - or perhaps it’s coming from his mouth, because his teeth look bloody when he opens his mouth. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says. 

“Don’t what?” Neil asks, almost teasing. Billy glares at him. “You don’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell this kid to break into my house, now did I? He did that of his own volition.” 

Billy looks down. Steve has never seen him so sheepish; so _frightened_. He looks to the door, still open to the black night outside. He thinks about Max. Would she be at the Byers’ yet? How fast could she run? 

“Billy,” Neil Hargrove says in a sickly sing-song voice that makes Steve’s blood curdle. Steve snaps his head back toward Billy, who is just-barely holding himself up, his hair hanging over his face as he looks to his father. Neil’s voice is low and dangerous when he says, “You want to tell me who this is?”

“Some asshole,” Billy bites out. 

“ _Some asshole_ ,” Neil repeats. “Now, that might be the first right thing you’ve said all night.” He turns his attention to Steve. He tilts his head, considers him, and then he asks, “Now what are you doing barging into my house and calling after my son?” he asks. “Were you creeping around here?” he asks. “Looking for my boy?” he demands. “Were you in my daughter’s window, too?” he presses. Each question is punctuated with a shove; it is not harsh, just a jab of Neil’s fingers against Steve’s chest, and he advances with each strike. Steve steps backward, backward, backward until his heel almost slips off the lip between the door and the front stoop. Steve grabs the door jam to stop himself from falling, breaking eye contact only briefly to glance outside. When he looks back, when he finds Billy over Neil’s shoulder, Billy’s is glaring at him. _Why are you here?_ his eyes say. _Why is your stupid ass even here?_

“It’s Thursday,” Steve murmurs, even though Billy had not asked. 

“What was that?” Neil asks. Steve looks at him. He tastes the bile again; he doesn’t think he can hold it down. “It’s _Thursday_?” Neil asks. “Is this some kind of routine for you?” This time, when he shoves Steve, it is harsh. Steve loses his balances. He is thrust outside, tumbling ass over teakettle down the front steps and onto the walkway. His teeth catch his lip when he tries to curl his head away from the cement and now he tastes blood, too. 

“Don’t!” he hears Billy yell, though he sounds about a million miles away. Neil Hargrove is looming over Steve, a great big shadow blocking out the moon and the stars and the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps. He hears footsteps, stumbling ones, and suddenly Neil is torn away. “Don’t you _dare_!” Billy snaps. “Don’t you _fucking_ touch him!” 

Steve lifts himself up in time to see Billy one land one good punch before Neil throws him away- literally throws him, like a rag doll, and Billy lands with a crash that shakes the whole damn floor. Neil rounds on him; he rises, towers over his son, raises his fists.

“No!” Steve screams. He forces himself to his feet. He is shaky, and he bumps into the door on his way through it. He throws himself at Neil. He, too, is easily flung away.

“What the fuck is this?” Neil demands. He is rounding on Billy once more. Steve staggers to his feet, reaches for Neil, grabs fistfuls of the man’s black jacket. Neil twists around, his cracked knuckles scraping Steve’s cheek, his jaw, and when he can’t Steve off of him he slams Steve against the wall. Steve loses his grip. He falls to his knees. The shadow over him grabs the front of his shirt and hoists him up. “Who the _fuck_ are you?” Neil Hargrove growls. 

“Get off of him,” Billy snarls. He is on shaky feet, too, and Steve wishes he could just stay down. This isn’t Billy’s fight anymore, Steve things. He thinks about Max, about how she’d have to have called by now. He thinks that Chief Hopper must be on his way, he _has_ to be, it’s been long enough. He looks at Billy, wants to plead with him: _just stay down. it’ll be over soon. stay down_. But Billy doesn’t. He beats his fists against his father’s back, pleading, “Get away from him!” 

Again, Billy is thrown off. This time, when he lands, he doesn’t move. Steve’s heart jumps up, but he cannot move. Neil Hargrove still has him pinned to the wall. He glares, hard, at Steve. 

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he says slowly. “Who. The fuck. Are you?”

Steve does not answer. He can hear car tires in down the street, the distance wail of sirens. He waits. Waits, waits, waits in silence until he hears the tires screech around the corner of Cherry Lane. Red and blue light washes over the dark street outside and the moment Steve sees them, the moment the first rogue beam shines through the window, Steve smiles. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Neil Hargrove asks, and Steve laughs.

Behind them, Billy is slowly crawling to his hands and knees. He looks confused. He watches the door, watches Chief Hopper’s beige car slide up to the curb. Neil Hargrove lets go of Steve and, without that strong grip wrinkling his shirt, Steve collapses to his knees. Billy looks at him. “What did you do?” he asks. Steve does not have a chance to answer. Chief Hopper is already taking long strides up the front law, is talking about a call about a _disturbance_ at 4819 Cherry Lane. He is already peering inside, catching sight of the boys. There are cuffs in his hands and soon they are around Neil’s wrists. 

Steve moves towards Billy, reaches for him, but Billy shrinks away. 

“That was fucking stupid,” he spits. 

“I had to do it,” Steve says. Again, he reaches for Billy, but this time Billy slaps him away.

“You shouldn’t have done anything,” Billy says, but the anger that is normally present in his voice, in his very being, isn’t there. He isn’t even looking at Steve. He is watching his father shout at the chief, is watching two uniformed officers tugging him away. Outside, the back door of Chief Hopper’s car swings open and Max emerges, Mrs. Byers following. Mrs. Byers stops at Hopper, who is saying something about waiting in the car. Max, though, practically runs into the house.

“Billy,” she says, and Billy’s eyes snap up to hers. Something close to a sob catches in her throat when she says his name again and throws her arms around his neck. She buries her head against him, mutters apologies that he does not answer. This time, when Steve reaches for Billy, Billy lets him touch his back- even lets him put an arm around his shoulders. Steve can feel Billy uncoiling beneath him. When Billy breathes out, Steve thinks the smallest cry comes out of him - disbelief and relief expelled in a single exhale. He leans forward and Steve moves to catch him, to secure between himself and Max. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says. He will not say he’s sorry. He holds Billy, feels Billy’s free hand- the arm not wrapped around Max -close around his own waist. “It’s okay,” he says as Billy begins to cry.


End file.
